The Boy Who Would Be King
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: Sequel to Hope Springs Eternal. Anne is pregnant with her third child, and Henry has gone north to put down the Pilgrimage of Grace. Left to fend for herself in a court crawling with enemies, Anne will come up against her foes for the final time.
1. The Summer Of Discontent

**Author's Note: **This is a sequel to "Hope Springs Eternal", and takes up where that fic ended. However, the understanding of that story is not essential to the understanding of this one. Anne is pregnant with her third child, Prince Arthur is now one year old and Princess Elizabeth is about to turn three. The year is 1536, (not 1537 as erroneously stated in the epilogue of Hope Springs), and the Pilgrimage of Grace has just broken out. Before I start, I just want to state that I own none of the characters, the TV show, or the history. Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter One: The Summer Of Discontent.<strong>

**July, 1536.**

Queen Anne eases her body down on the bed, stretching herself out on the plump feather mattress, which conforms itself to the swollen contours of her body like fluid. A groan of relief escapes her parted lips as her head rests against the firm pillows. The tension drains from her muscles like the ebbing tides of the sea. There she lies, in the warm, languid darkness of her Privy Chamber. No more maids fussing over her. No more ambassadors to greet. No more children snapping at her swollen ankles. Blissful, she thinks to herself as the lets the silence wash over her.

The North still plays on her mind. But, she tells herself, they're in York, and that's the opposite end of the country. Even by the time Henry and his men get there, the assemblies will be dispersed, in all probability. But even she could not deny that ten thousand men is a lot, and the Royal Army has nothing like that number of men. Anne, drifting into a comfortable doze, consciously lets it all slide from her mind, glad that Henry has delayed his departure.

Its' too warm to have the blankets over her, and so the top window is open. A soft, cool breeze sweeps into the room, and Anne can feel it whispering against her exposed thighs, and face. Such a relief from the heat of another long, hot, summer's day. It tempts and teases her into sleep, before the sound of the door groaning on it's old hinges makes her stir. She doesn't open her eyes. She lies there, listening to him enter the room, and undress. She smiles as his footsteps, muffled by the dust on the creaking floorboards, pad closer to the bed. Gently, he kneels beside her before lowering himself down next to her. She waits, eyes still closed, for him to wrap those arms around her middle, and nestle her body close to his like a limpet, while she breathes his scent. That rich, musky scent that follows him everywhere.

"Henry," She softly sighs his name. Finally, she opens her bleary, blue eyes and turns to look at King Henry. Semi naked, now, as he wraps himself around the curve of her back, nuzzling the soft flesh of her throat.

"Did I wake you?" He whispers, apologetically. "I was talking to my generals."

"No," With effort, she turns over to face him so they can lie in each other's arms. "Henry, how serious is this? Please, be honest with me."

He raises that vacuous smile, the one he shows in the hope that it will diffuse the fear that his next words may bring.

"Cromwell has been getting more reports in, just this evening. The assembly is getting bigger, with men from all over the north joining the rebel standards," He explains, injecting lightness into his tone. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at her. His expression suddenly solemn. "Its' imperative that I ride out at dawn. No more delays-"

"But Henry," Anne cuts him off as she struggles to sit up. "My uncle, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and sundry others would be able to go. Why don't you stay, just until you hear back from them?"

"Anne, I can't," He replies as he brushes a few loose strands of hair from her brow. "This is more than an illegal assembly. We could be looking at open rebellion."

Anne lies back, again, and looks up at the roof beams. Almost all of the men will be going, and Henry, like a true King, will be expected to lead them. Especially now that he has a son to succeed him, and his life has lost a little of it's value. But, all the sons in the world could not replace the love of her husband. She could no more think of her life without him in it, than imagine what it must be like to live under water, starved of air and light.

"Are you taking George with you?" Anne asks, her voice distant. She is thinking of all the men who're riding out. Henry, her brother George, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Norfolk was an old war horse, though. He loved a good fight, so she was not concerned about him. George, on the other hand, was an altogether different matter. The wars and fighting of the previous generations were just old stories to them. Never, did they imagine, that they would be living through yet more fighting in their own lifetimes.

"Yes, but he won't joining us until after his child is born," Henry replies. "Your father is staying here, with you. So don't be too afraid. Cromwell will be here, so he can legislate you out of trouble, if needs be. But Anne, if something does happen to me, and I die, Cromwell has drawn up a new act of succession. Arthur will be King, but during his minority, you and your brother will act as regents. If anything happens to you," Henry can't bring himself to mention child bed fever. "Then your father will step in. Or if anything happens to George, of course. Cromwell, too, will be on the regency council. The man's an administrative genius. He'll do anything for you."

"Henry, this is pitchforks at ten paces. Is all this really necessary?"

"Yes!" He replies, barely concealing his impatience. "Also, I'm despatching men to deal with Lady Mary. Her cousin, Reginald Pole, has incited this rebellion and I want her to submit to me, at all costs. In the meantime, Elizabeth is being brought from Hatfield, and she, as well as Arthur are to stay with you at all times. If the rebels reach as far south as Kent, you are to go to the Tower, and seek refuge. If the rebels reach the gates of London, you and the children are to seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. You do not come out of that sanctuary until I, or Cromwell, come to you in person."

Anne's flesh crawls with a chill that has nothing to do with the breeze from the open window. "I didn't mean to sound flippant, Henry," She replies, her brow creased into a frown. "But, the way you're talking makes me think that if anything does happen to you, and the rebels reach the city gates, then we won't be needing a regency council."

"It won't come to that," He states with firmness. "Its' all just a precaution. To be safe. But, also to be safe, I'm bringing my cousin, the Marquis of Exeter, with me. If the Tudors are going down, then he's coming down with us."

"What about Gertrude, his dragon of a wife?" Anne asks, laughing drily. "She would great against the rebels!"

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><p>Gertrude Courtenay lies awake, and restless in her private apartments. Her husband, Henry, Marquis of Exeter, sits polishing his breastplate for the tenth time that evening. The silence between them is a companionable one, but he knows that her mind is racing on ahead of itself. Slowly, she paces the length of the chamber, her cream nightgown sweeping the floor behind her as she goes. Her brow creases in concentration as she nibbles the tip of her index finger.<p>

"So, you say the King is sending you north to fight the rebels?" She asks, again. She has asked several times, and the casual observer would think her a simpleton for repeating the same question. But, Courtenay knows his wife. She is asking for clarification, so she can formulate her plans more concisely. So she can massage the circumstances to suit her grand schemes. From the maid of Kent, to Jane Seymour, she'd tried various methods to dispose of the Queen. But all had thwarted her. Nonetheless, she kept her spirits up.

"Thats' right, my love," He replies with a sigh. Dropping the breastplate to the floor, it clangs off the flagstones as he gets to his feet and claps his hand on her shoulder. "Whatever it is your planning, stop. After all you did a few years ago, I am still on thin ice with the King. I may be his cousin, but thats' all the more reason to fear him."

Gertrude's eyes widen in innocence as she turns her face to his. "I am planning nothing, my lord," her voice chimes and she stands up on tip toes to plant a kiss on his stubbly cheek. "Come to bed, my love," She implores him. "God alone knows when I shall see you again."

His sudden anger abates as swiftly as it washed over him, and he strips to his waist before they fall into bed together. From out of the mullioned windows, he watches the full moon sitting high in the indigo sky. Beside him, Gertrude gently trails her nail down his bare chest, but it elicits little response from him.

"Don't tell me you've never thought about it," She whispers, seductively in his ear, her breath hot against his bare skin. "Don't tell me you have never dreamt about it."

Slowly, he turns his face away from the moon, and looks at her. Her eyes narrowed, her lips in a succulent pout like a biblical temptress. "Have you ever though about my head adorning London Bridge?" He asks, matching the allure of her voice. "Have you ever dreamt of the four quarters of my body nailed to posts at the four corners of the Realm?"

The delay in his response gives him away. It exposes a weak spot, and she knows that he has thought of it, several times before.

"You don't fool me," She mouths the words so that he has to strain his ears to hear it. His silence is mutinous.

"He has a son," He states with finality after the moment passes. "God knows, there could be another in the Queen's belly as we speak."

"Who will back the one year old son of a whore, over the grown son of Catherine of York? Your claim is as good as any Tudor's, and you could be King-"

"And you could be Queen, which is what this is really all about, isn't it?" The anger in him flares as he throws the covers over his head, blocking her from his view, and trying to smother out the sound of her voice. But thoughts are irreversible. Once that seed is planted, no matter how much you push it down, it will still flourish.

Gertrude gives up the fight with a sigh of resignation. She looks down at him, nothing more than a tuft of black curls sticking out from the coverlet now, and knows he could be great. He is King Henry's first cousin, and no one can take that away from him. She has the Pole family on side, and so she knows she can secure Papal backing with her unfailing adherence to the Catholic faith. She listens to his gentle snores as she lays back in the dark, looking out at the moon, and waits for the dawn to come.

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><p>In the forecourt below the window, Queen Anne can hear the restive stamps of the horses as they jitter under the weight of the men at arms. Slowly, she crosses the room, ignoring the aches in her lower back caused by the quickening babe, and looks down at the hastily assembled Royal Army. Their standards flutter in the breeze, and the armour of the men glitters in the sunshine, like a sea of silver gilt washing over the Palace grounds. She loosens the latch on the window, and swings it open to the clatter of horses hooves as an unseen rider enters the forecourt. She knows it's him. Her heart jumps at the sight of King Henry, mounted now on a huge war horse, caparisoned in the Tudor colours, and a great royal standard.<p>

His voice carries, loud and clear, over the whinnies of the horses, up to where she listens. He rallies the troops with style. But then, Henry does everything with style, and war is his forte. The start of the speech is her cue. She closes the windows, and turns away. As she walks to the door, her ladies form a queue behind her. Mary Boleyn, Nan Saville, and Anne Basset taking up chief positions behind her, as she leads them out into the forecourt, to inspect the troops.

With one hand resting on her swollen belly, Anne wends her way down the cool stone stairwell, and emerges outside to rapturous applause from the troops. Henry smiles down at her from the top of his war horse, before concluding his address.

"In the name of St George. For England, and for Queen Anne!" He bawls out over the din, and gestures to Anne, holding her head high to keep the balance of her coronet as she moves to the side of Henry's horse. She waves, and smiles widely, soaking up the love of her people.

Henry dismounts with a graceful jump down from the saddle, landing deftly at her side. Together, they walk up and down the lines of men. Shaking hands, exchanging platitudes, until they finally can extricate themselves for one final, private moment before he leaves her.

"Remember what I told you?" He asks, his face half hidden by the shadow of the arches they're secreted beneath.

"I remember," She assures him. Now that the moment of separation is at hand, Anne begins to feel the anxiety of a war wife. It's now that she realises she may never see him again. "Just, come back to me safe. Your children need you. I need you."

He makes no reply. Instead, he leans over her bulge to cup her face with his hands, his gauntlets scratching at her skin, and kisses her full on the lips. He lets it linger, before drawing back to look deeply into her eyes.

"Do not be afraid," He whispers at length. "Just give me one more smile, and I'll be on my way with your love."

Anne manages a laugh. But, seizing the moment for intimacy, she reaches up and strokes his cheek. She can never grow tired of the feel of his skin on hers, and the thought of separation hurts all the more for it. Love is a tricky thing. Finally, Henry kneels at her feet for her blessings, which she freely gives.

"God speed, my lord," She rests her hand on his head. "And God speed you home, again."

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><p>She watches from the window as the Royal Army rides west, into the eye of the setting sun. She stands as still, and as silent, as the dawn as she watches the mounted figures shrink from her view, until they're just blackened specks against the dying sun. She breathes in, trying to catch his rich, musky scent, to make it feel like he is nearby.<p>

When all she can see is the bleak horizon and the darkening London skylines, she moves silently from the window. Her ladies watch her, hawk-eyed and as taut as bow strings. They need to keep her calm for the sake of the baby. But, Anne swallows her bitter anxiety. She smiles, and claps her hands, and calls for music.


	2. Whispers On The Wind

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the lovely reviews, I really appreciate it. Before I continue, I just want to reiterate that I own none of the characters, events, or the TV show. Thank you again, and please read and review!

**Note on Characters Omitted From the TV Show:** Henry Courtenay (Marquis of Exeter), was the son of Catherine of York (youngest sister of Elizabeth of York, Henry VIII's mother), and Sir William Courtenay. IF the Tudor line failed, then he would have been the logical successor to Henry VIII's crown, as he was the King's first cousin. The Poles (scions of George, Duke of Clarence), also have a claim (albeit weaker), to the crown.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Whispers On The Wind.<strong>

From morning until night, Queen Anne sits in the King's seat up on the dais, set against the far wall of the royal Presence Chamber. Each day, she silently holds out her hand for the reports from messengers and scouts who've been sent out to hunt for even the flimsiest scraps of news on the roads from London to York. Her brother, George, Lord Rochford, often sits at her side. His scowl deepening as the day wears on, as still no real, verifiable news comes through. Each day, they sift through the rumours, hearsay, and gossip, trying to piece together a picture of what is happening in the north. It is like listening to whispers on the wind, and about as reliable.

Finally, on the third day, Cromwell comes to her with reports from the front line. His face grave, his voice toneless as he reads from the papers in his hands. York city, Hull, Wakefield, Harrogate and Doncaster have all fallen into rebel hands. Occupied by an army of up to forty thousand people, all rebelling against the Queen, and the Reformation. Anne knows Henry and his men won't even have reached distant Yorkshire, yet. Her blood had frozen in her veins as Cromwell read out the news. All she could do was sit helplessly, and pray for a reversal in the Royal Army's fortunes.

To compound matters, the weather had broken. On the fourth day, the skies turn grey with low, swollen clouds that roll in from the north, blotting out the sun before bursting with torrential rains. Now, Anne stands at the great bay windows of her Privy Chamber, watching the fat rain drops smash into the mullions, as she massages the aches that gnaw at her lower back, when the door is swung open behind her.

She sighs inwardly, and turns to face her latest visitor; and sags with relief when she sees George. His face is flushed, like he has been running, but smiling from ear to ear. She tilts her head, quizzically, finally expecting some good news. He sweeps a small bow before bounding over to her, wrapping her in a close embrace.

"I am a father!" He pulls back to watch her reaction.

"Oh, George!" She squeals, her voice ringing through the whole chamber, squeezing him as tight as she can from over her own kicking baby bump.

"The most beautiful baby girl in the world," His voice trembles with emotion, and Anne can feel him shaking beneath her hug. She pulls back to look up at her little brother, grown up at last.

"You're not disappointed, are you? You must have hoped for a son." She remembered the birth of Elizabeth. The elation tinged with regret at her sex. But she also remembered how happy Henry had been, all the same. George, evidently, is feeling the same.

"No! God no!" He exclaims, he is alive with joy, and Anne can well see it. "I thought that I would be. But when I saw her, her little fingers and toes. Her... Her... You know... Her face, and eyes which are blue like Jane's... and her lungs which are loud, and strong like mine...We have named her Anne, after you."

Anne falls silent as her eyes cloud with tears. It's not often she is lost for words, and she suspects the naming decision was more George's than Jane's, but it matters not. He brought her a small ray of hope She takes his hand, and leads him over to the window seat so they can talk properly. But, this news also brings with it less happy knowledge for her.

"So, you'll be riding out to York, soon?" She asks, sadness filling her eyes. He gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

"I'm leaving at dawn, I won't even see Anne's Christening. But look," He breaks off to rummage in the pocket of his doublet, and he withdraws a scrap of folded parchment. He spreads it out on his lap, revealing tine, inky black hand and foot prints. "These are her's."

He beams with the glowing pride that only a new father can feel. To Anne, they look like large, spiky blotches of ink, but to George, she knows, they are works of art moulded from the extremities of his newborn. His newborn, she knows, is not a new born like any other. She is his newborn.

"They're beautiful," She leans over to kiss him, and get a closer look at the babe's prints. "I swear, I'll do everything in my power to care for her while you're in York."

"You'll sponsor her, and stand as Godmother?"

"I would be honoured."

Life goes on. While the Kingdom is in uproar, and they are threatened from every quarter. When they don't know who to turn to, or who to trust; life still goes on. Souls pass on, new souls arrive. They mourn with the grieving, with the same willingness, and open heartedness as they celebrate the arrivals. Even during the darkest hours of the Realm, hope springs in the unlikeliest of places.

Anne finds comfort in the mundane, and the seemingly trivial. She feels that, perhaps, if she deals with life's minor details, then the bigger picture will look after itself. Happily, she ends another long day, with her brother at her side. A glass of warm wine, some delicacies brought in from the kitchens, and pleasant conversation.

As the skies grow darker, the rains get even heavier. Lightening cracks the darkness, before crashing thunder booms high above them. Anne tries not to think of Henry, still on the road to York. But as she turns her face back to the skies, to watch as the storm gathers pace, it is impossible not to. Lost in a private reverie, she didn't hear Nan enter the chamber.

"Your Majesty, Lady Gertrude of Exeter to see you," Nan dips into a low curtsey before the Queen, who rises unsteadily to her feet.

"Show her in, please, Nan," Anne replies, exchanging a look with her brother, who swiftly folds away his ink prints.

"I'll leave you two ladies to it, then-"

"Oh, no you don't!"

Anne shoots him another look as Gertrude steps into the Chamber, and George freezes on the spot, not daring to move.

"Your Majesty," Gertrude sinks into a graceful curtsey, and rises again to look George up and down appraisingly. "Forgive my intrusion upon your time."

"What can we do for you?" Anne asks, briskly, getting straight down to business, and inviting no small talk.

"I came to ask your permission to leave Court, so I can return to my estates in Exeter," Gertrude replies with equal briskness. "Since my husband left to go to York, our lands have been left unattended, and I should like to ensure the harvest is collected and our tenants are cared for."

Anne regards her coolly for a moment. "Granted," She states bluntly. "You go with our blessings."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Gertrude sinks into another deep, but brief, curtsey. "May I congratulate my Lord of Rochford on the birth of a daughter." She turns her cold gaze on to George, who's attempts at invisibility have once again failed him.

"Why thank you, my Lady," He replies, tripping over his words slightly. "May I wish you God speed on your journey south. Pray the weather is better down there."

Gertrude gives a sudden start, as though she'd just remembered something hugely important. Cocking her head to the side, she takes a step closer to him.

"That reminds me, you will be riding out to York soon, will you not?" She asks, as if making a polite enquiry. "Especially now that you daughter is safe delivered."

"Leaving at dawn," George talks in short, declarative statements, hoping the conversation will end all the more quickly for it.

"Ah, I see," She replies, her brow furrowed. "This dreadful weather seems to have closed in from the north, and I fear the roads will become impassable. You may have to detour through the west country. As you know, my husband and I own many lands in that area. I'm sure I could summon some men to-"

Anne, sensing the direction in which the Countess is moving, is quick to cut her off: "A guard has already been summoned for George's journey. Thank you, all the same." She forces a smile, but knows there is nothing she can do to prevent George's detour, if the roads are blocked.

"Of course, Majesty. I bid you both a good evening," Another curtsey, and Gertrude backs out of the Chamber.

Anne and George watch her leave. Outside, the storm continues apace, with sheet lightening splitting the skies, the rain still hammering off the window panes.

"Be careful, won't you?" Anne says as she kisses her brother good night. "All of the soldiers we have are already four days ahead of you, and these storms could delay you further."

"Don't worry," He whispers, cupping her worried face in his hands. "I have some of my own retainers riding out with me, anyway."

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><p>Gertrude Courtenay pulls the hood of her cloak low down over her face, protecting herself from the rain that batters down relentlessly. Her footsteps splash through ankle deep puddles as she makes her way to the stables where her retainers are waiting for her instructions. It takes a moment for her to distinguish the flames of the torch around which they're huddled, deep within the outbuilding.<p>

Hugging the sable close around her body, she makes an unladylike hop and run across the short distance she has left. They don't notice her, at first. They're too busy talking amongst themselves, and shivering around the guttering light of the torch in a desperate bid to keep warm. But, one of them looks up, and spots the rich, velvet, sable lined gown that only a woman of rank could wear. Then, the rest seem to sense her through some sort of telepathy, and they all jump to attention. There are five of them, altogether, and they all sink into deep bows before their mistress.

"Gentlemen," She smiles around at all of them, still bowed low before her. "You may rise. I have urgent errands for all of you."

She feels a thrill of power as they all rise at her command. She stands before them, head and shoulders shorter than all them, but they all obey her ever word.

"You two," She points to the two men on the far left. "Take this message to my husband. George Boleyn is riding out to York tomorrow, and he'll probably be riding through the West country, and heading North via Bristol. Leave now, and get a good head start on him." She pauses to look at the remaining three men. "You are to intercept him on the road. Take off your liveries, I don't want him recognising any of you as my men. Follow him, and make sure he does not reach York. Way lay him, and hold him securely and await further instructions from either myself, or my husband."

They all nod their agreement, and bow to her again. She smiles with satisfaction before dipping into the money bag tied at her waist and paying them generously.

"Tell my husband that I am riding to Wiltshire for a meeting with the Seymour's," She informs the messengers. "I shall be waiting there, and seeing how things play out. I don't know if the Royal Army know about Pontefract, yet, but if they don't, then this could be our chance. Make sure the others are ready."

The business concluded, she nods her acknowledgement of their work, and sweeps from the barn. Already, the messengers are saddled, and about to steer their horses out of the barn. Hooded once again, Gertrude casts a quick glance over her shoulder, up to the Privy Chamber where she knows Queen Anne still resides, and her heart skips its' rhythm. She's risking everything, but the rewards of her risks are more than exponential to the effort.


	3. The Pilgrimage Of Grace

**Author's Note:** Thank you again for the reviews, it means a lot! Chapter two was a little slow, so hopefully this will push things along a little. Again, I own none of the characters, events, or the TV show. Thanks again, and as always, reviews are very much appreciated. Thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: The Pilgrimage of Grace.<strong>

After a week on the increasingly treacherous roads, the Royal Army finally reaches the border of Yorkshire. Most of the men have been marching for days in unseasonably wet conditions, with many now lagging behind. Exhausted, demoralised, and now afraid. King Henry, flanked by his Generals, Norfolk, Suffolk, and Henry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter; reach the crest of the hills that ring England's largest County, and look out over the occupied town of Pontefract. The skyline is dominated by the large, imposing castle, that now has the rebel flags flying from it's mast. A sight that incites pure nausea in King Henry, who has to swallow at the rising bile burning up his throat.

Stretched out under the iron grey skies, is line after line of men. Banners showing the five wounds of Christ flutter in the breeze. A sea of them, as far as the eye can see. The four men exchange a look as they pull their horses to a halt. None of them need state the obvious. They're hopelessly outnumbered. Suffolk shakes his head sadly, while Norfolk curses heavily under his breath.

The horses snort, and stamp their hooves into the marshy ground as the men survey the scene before them. Slowly, the rank and file foot soldiers catch them up, and a gust of whispering sends word of their inevitable defeat rolling back to the furthest stragglers. Already, on the roads, there have been desertions. Morale had slipped steadily, and when the men saw for themselves the enormity of the battle ahead of them, Henry knew full well that what remained of that tattered morale would vanish in a puff.

King Henry glances over to the city. He squints along the heavily fortified town walls, noting the rebel banners and streamers hanging from every spare inch of space, he spots the burst of thick, black smoke that suddenly spirals into the damp air. As soon as one goes up, it is swiftly joined by another, and then another. A signal to the rebel leaders that the Royal Army has arrived.

"We've been seen," He remarks flatly to no one in particular.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, manoeuvres his giant war horse, bringing it up alongside the King's, before turning to look at the smoke signals.

"Your Majesty, we must act decisively," He keeps his voice low, but all the same, the gathering soldiers will be eavesdropping effectively enough to hear all that passes between them. "Perhaps if we lay siege to the town, and cut off the supply lines..." His voice falters, knowing that could take months to have any effect.

Henry makes no reply. He doesn't even glance across at his old friend. He just watches, his expression passive, registering no emotion, as he watches the smoke signals pouring into the atmosphere. He wets his cracked lips, and finally organises his thoughts into a cohesive reply.

"I'm going to go in there. I'm going to negotiate." He states. Beside him, Charles is horror struck.

"Henry, no!" His voice is firm, resolute. "It's too dangerous. Let's attack, take them by surprise!"

Henry turns to look at his old friend. He regards him coolly, his eyes narrowed. "Have you seen them, Charles?" He asks, incredulous. He'd always known that Charles wasn't the brightest star in the galaxy, but surely even he realises the danger they're in. "We're outnumbered. Either we negotiate, and reach a compromise. Or, we can go into battle, and every last one of us will be butchered in the field."

"His Majesty is right, Charles," Norfolk agrees as he trots over to their side, with Henry Courtenay at his side. "There's no other way. But listen, we're not duty bound to keep promises made to traitors. Get the leaders, this Robert Ask and John Constable, out here now. We'll negotiate with them, give them everything they ask for to make them all go away. Then, we regroup. Then we come back, and hang the bastards by the way side!"

King Henry smiles as he slides down from his horse, landing in the soft mud with a wet slap as his boots sink to the roots of the glass. "Exactly what I was thinking, Your Grace," He nods to the Duke, but signals to his cousin, Courtenay to dismount, and follow him.

"My Lord of Exeter," The King greets him formally before clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a sensible man. Surely you see the value in what Norfolk is saying?"

Courtenay glances over his shoulder, towards the county now overrun with rebels. Then, he looks back at the depleted Royal Army. When he turns to face the King again, his face says it all.

"It'd be suicide to engage these people in combat," He finally replies with a helpless shrug. "I think, personally, I should send out some messengers to the two leaders, and get them out here just like the Duke said. Meanwhile, get Brandon engaged in something useful. Get him to organise the men into a tactical retreat. Make it look a bit more like we're serious about a surrender."

"See to it, now," The King states, his eye roving over the disparate Royal Army; or at least, what's left of them.

With a brief bow, made awkward by his breastplate, Courtenay sets off a trot, his spurs getting stuck in the boggy earth. The King watches him disappear into a crowd of exhausted, wet, and dejected foot soldiers, before turning back to the two Dukes.

"All sorted?" Brandon calls over to him. He still looks unhappy after being thwarted in his quest for a fight.

"Aye, the messengers are on their way. So you make yourself useful and get the troops moved back, and set up camp back yonder," He points the way south, to a more sheltered terrain that lies two miles back the way they came, down a valley.

* * *

><p>As soon as he is out of sight of the others, Henry Courtenay ducks into a thicket of trees and lets himself sag against the thick trunk of an old oak tree. He ignores the fat raindrops that drip intermittently through the boughs, and takes deep, cleansing breaths to clear his head. He tries to block out Gertrude's voice, but it's all that he can hear. "Don't tell me you've never thought about it?" Her words rattle around his mind. He has thought of it, and he's thinking of it again.<p>

A wave of nausea washes over him, and he has to prop himself up against the tree. He digs the flesh of his palms painfully against the rough bark, distracting himself from the sickness that swells up in him, before retching painfully. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he pulls himself together, and steels himself for what he is going to do.

The King is his cousin, and only a few years older than he. They'd shared a schoolroom. They'd learned to ride, and hunt together. They took each other on in tournaments. Now, he was thinking of betrayal. He isn't going to dress it up as anything else.

Already, by the time he re-emerges into the fold of the army, the men are moving southwards under the command of the Duke of Suffolk. He scans over the passing faces, checking over their liveries for someone of his own affinity, and loyal to him above the others. He spots them, still standing by his horse, on the crest of the hill where he'd spoken to the King not twenty minutes earlier. He waves them over, knowing that only the most senior will come to him, and strides over to meet the man half way.

"I need you to carry a message direct to Robert Ask, and John Constable. It is for their ears alone, do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," The man replies, his face suddenly alight as though the hours of inactivity since their arrival had suddenly paid off.

"Tell them that they alone are to come out here and speak with His Majesty," Courtenay instructs, as he grips his retainer's wrist, leading him back into the thicket of trees, and away from prying eyes and ears. "But, tell them this also: The King will give them their every demand. But, it's a trick. They're playing for time, tricking the rebels into a ceasefire just so they can mount a proper attack, and destroy them all. Tell them, under no circumstances to trust either the King, Norfolk, or even Suffolk."

The retainer's face betrays not the slightest flicker of surprise. He simply bows, kisses his Lord's hand, and backs away again. "It will be done, my Lord of Exeter." With that, he vanishes into the press of people, as though he were taking a stroll by the Palace lakes.

The deed done, Henry glances wildly about him as though he expects the King's spies to leap up out of the ground and arrest him on the spot. But all around him, is the silence of the trees and undergrowth that tangles around the ground. There's no going back now, he thinks to himself as he runs to re-join the army. However, an impertinent tug at his elbow has him wheeling around to face another messenger. He is about to launch a stern rebuke, when he recognises the seal on the letter.

"A message from the Countess, my Lord," The man pants, still out of breath from his long journey from London. His weary horse is sagging, almost up to it's belly, in the mud behind him. "She told me to tell you that Lord Rochford has set out from London. However, I wouldn't be expecting his arrival any time soon."

"What on earth do you mean by that?" Courtenay demands, but already the messenger is departing. His poor horse plodding after him, back through the mud, and the ditches; back the same way they came, over the rugged terrain, and into the grey horizon.

* * *

><p>By dawn, the storms had abated. The rain had petered out, leaving the earth fresh and the air invigorating. George Boleyn, had kissed goodbye to his wife and baby, and set out for York, at last. The Queen had not come to wave him off. She was under orders to get as much rest as possible, prior to the birth of her own child. But, as he mounted his horse, he had looked up into the Privy Chamber window, and he'd seen her there. Her sad, pale face at the window, silently watching him leave. She saw him looking, and she raised a small, pained smile. She raised her hand in farewell, before retreating from view, as though it was all too much to watch the latest of her men to go riding off into the unknown. George carried on looking up at the window for a long moment after she'd gone; and even though she couldn't see it, he raised his left fist to his heart. "I love you."<p>

Two days into the journey, and the roads, (as he thought they would be), are almost impassable because of the storms. Fallen trees lie like felled giants over the beaten earth tracks that pass for highways in this part of England. Rivers in full tide, further swollen by the torrential rains, have burst their banks and flooded great tracts of land. Crop fields turned to swampy lakes. Harvests washed away. Livelihoods of poor farmers literally drowned in the downpour. The winter will be hard for them. Harder than usual, with some inevitably dying from the hunger that this loss will cause. George crosses himself, sending up a silent prayer that the devastation is not nationwide. Finally, he gives in and veers to the west in hope of safer, easier roads, while avoiding the forests where the outlaws lived with impunity from the law.

He'd been on the road for four days, with over night stops in Taverns, when he was caught up by the messengers from the King. It was as he was preparing to leave the latest Tavern in which he'd rested, that the men sprang out, their horses tethered just out of sight. Mud spattered, wet, and drawn with exhaustion; they leapt down from their mounts and sunk into a low bow.

"Lord Rochford," The more senior of the two greeted him.

"Sir, what news?" George asks, his head cocked quizzically to the side as he took the measure of the men. "I see you've come from the King." Squinting at them, George takes a cautious step closer.

"Aye, my Lord. You're to come with us to the manor house at Silver Dale before travelling further north," The same man explains. "King's orders."

"You have these instructions under seal?"

The two of them look at each other, exchanging a worried glance before turning back to him.

"We misplaced it during the storm. We were out in the open through the worst of it, and our horses bolted. The seal is gone. Apologies, My Lord Rochford."

"Bollocks." George states, bluntly with a dry laugh and a shrug. "Cromwell has the damn Seal down in London, not the King in York. Who are you really, and why have you been following me? Don't try and talk your way out of this. I took another route, and there is no way any of the Royal Army would have been able to find me, unless they'd been following me for some time. So, out with it!"

The two men look utterly abashed, for a moment. But that soon passes. Instinctively, George reaches for his sword, but before he can even grip the hilt, he hears the soft tread of a third set of feet behind him. A split second later, he feels the cold, steel tip of a sword point digging into the back of his neck. He freezes. Unable to turn, he is at the mercy of the man now standing behind him, unseen, but heavily armed.

"Don't make things difficult, now, Boleyn," A soft, calm voice whispers in his ear. George freezes, his hand still half way to his sword, and he dare not even look around into the face of his assassin. Now, the other two have their weapons drawn. One has a pole axe that could cave in his skull with one well aimed blow. The other has a sword, now trained on George's throat, making his heart beat race, and his mouth run dry in fear.

"If you're going to kill me-" He speaks through clenched teeth, his eyes straining to keep the sword at his throat in focus, but its' just a cold, silver blur digging into the soft flesh at his neck.

"Oh, we're not going to do that," The first man, who now has a sword at George's throat speaks. "You're going to drop your weapons, and come with us."

A fight would be suicide, so he plays for time and complies. George slowly grips the hilt of his sword, drawing it slowly before letting it drop at his feet so the man with the pole axe can collect it. He then frisks the rest of George's body, making him stiffen and bristle, as a dagger is drawn from his belt and casually tossed aside. Satisfied that George is completely disarmed, the two men withdraw to fetch their horses before guarding him in turn while the third, unseen man mounts his horse, too.

Safely mounted, they form a circle around their captive, and one of them follows at a kissing distance, his sword trained on George's back. Together, they move off silently, wending their way through the countryside.

George's panic quickly dissolves into an eerie calm, as though it were all happening to someone else. Like he could wake up at any moment, and the whole rebellion would have been a bad dream, a product of his fraught imagination. Even with the occasional jab in the spine with the point of a sword, he still feels disjointed from what is going on. Almost happily, he lets himself be led away to God only knows what fate. But in his mind, he is already picking out escape routes.

* * *

><p>"Papa!"<p>

Prince Arthur's shrill little voice rings out across the Privy Chamber of Hampton Court. Anne drops her embroidery with a sudden start, and glances wildly about the room, as though Henry had sneaked in, without her knowing. Although she knows that is not possible, she is saddened all the same when he isn't there. "Papa" is just Prince Arthur's word of the day. She slides onto her knees at the side of the Prince's cot.

"Papa will be home soon, little boy," She whispers, her voice heavy with suppressed tears. "Papa loves you. Mama loves you."

His eyes shine brightly as she moves closer to the bars of his cot. She looks deep into those eyes, and remembers the night he was born. Those sapphire eyes, with black flecks. She remembers every small detail. Everything that makes her boy unique to her.

"Mama," He whispers, and points a chubby, wet little digit at her face.

"Yes," Her voice is barely audible as she brings her hand up to the cot. "Mama loves you. Mama's going to protect you."

"Cwom!" He shouts, his voice, once again piercingly loud.

"Yes, darling," Anne sighs. "Cromwell loves you, too."

"Gats!"

He means "cats". Arthur's new favourite game seems to be shouting every word in his limited vocabulary, over and over again. But, Anne doesn't mind. She just wishes Henry were here to see it. To see how their son flourishes in leaps and bounds on a daily basis. Instead of fighting the ignorant, and the ill informed, yet again.


	4. Checkmate

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the reviews, I really appreciate everyone's input! By way of disclaimer, I just want to state that I own none the characters, events, or show etc. I hope everyone enjoys the latest instalment of my latest story. Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: Checkmate.<strong>

King Henry stands alone on the hill, set apart from the swell of the army who're all huddled in the bowl of the valley, and watches as the two small figures in the distance grow larger, the nearer they get. Their hoods are pulled up over their heads, protecting them from the soft drizzle that leaks continually from the heavy, leaden skies that seem to brood continually over the whole of the north. Henry wonders whether summer even exists in Yorkshire. Perhaps, he thinks, their summer is simply when the rain gets warmer. He snorts quietly to himself as the two cowled figures finally get close enough for him to see their faces peering from beneath their hoods.

Henry jumps down from the saddle, landing in the ever boggy earth with another shrill splash, sending muddy water spraying over his breeches. He curses quietly under his breath as he turns to face his new visitors, scowling at the Pilgrim's bands tied about their upper arms. He appraises them coolly, slowly looking them up and down. Their rough woollen tunics reach only their knees, which are caked in dirt from working the land. These are not the men he was expecting. Disgruntled, he throws his horses reins aside and strides over to the Peasant messengers as they finally reach the crest of the hill.

"We have a message from Robert Ask," One of them lisps at him through a toothless mouth. Henry's stomach turns in disgust.

"I know this isn't exactly an everyday occurrence for you," He sneers down his nose at the two creatures. "But don't they even teach you how to greet your King, around here?" He jerks his head in the direction of the County of Yorkshire.

Obviously not. The two men simply lower their hoods and stare blankly up at him, their faces uncomprehending, either through ignorance, or choice.

"Our generals won't come out here. You'll have to go to them in the Castle," One explains, his dialect so strong, that Henry can scarcely make out what they're saying. "If you don't, then we will attack, win, and march south, not stopping until London."

Finally, the second man finds his tongue and pipes up: "The choice is yours, Your Majesty." They both fall into fits of raucous laughter, before turning their backs on him, and walking away.

"That's not possible!" Henry yells after them in frustration, his face burns with humiliation at his treatment of commoners.

They both stop, still with their backs turned until one of them glances over his shoulder at Henry.

"Anything is possible," He states matter of factly. "You of all people should know that."

Henry sighs deeply and kicks at a loose sod of turf in anger. For the first time in his existence, he has found himself in a situation where others are calling the shots, and those others are his sworn enemies. He has no choice. He is at their mercy, and the only card he can play is the one to bargain for time. He can't bargain for time unless he goes to the rebel leaders in person. Suppressing the urge to run the peasants through with a sword, Henry calls out to them again.

"Hold!" His voice booms across the field. The two men stop again. "Let me fetch my generals, and we'll be over there soon."

The two men turn, and exchange a look with each other, before the toothless one with the weather beaten face spoke again.

"Oh, didn't we mention? You're to come alone, or with the one who sent the first message," He casually informs the King. "Take it or leave it." He shrugs.

The one who brought the message. Henry Courtenay. Henry rolls his eyes sighs with resignation. "Fine!" He groans as he slumps against the flank of his horse.

* * *

><p>The pains began at dawn, but Anne remained completely calm. It was only the beginning, and she knows it will take a few hours yet. She swung her legs out of the great bed she slept in, and padded across the room to the door that led on to Princess Elizabeth, and Prince Arthur's nursery. Shivering against the sudden chill, she eases the door open just a fraction, to check that her children were sleeping peacefully inside. Their governess, Lady Bryan could just be seen, sleeping in a nearby ante chamber. Satisfied of their comfort and safety, she eases the door silently shut, and wakes Nan Saville, and her sister Mary.<p>

"It is time, fetch the midwives, and bring them to the King's Privy Chamber," She whispers to Nan, who shakes herself awake before pulling on a nightgown, and disappearing into the Palace beyond the doors.

"Anne, are you sure?" Mary asks, still bleary eyed with sleep. Her question is answered by a painful contraction that twists itself up Anne's belly. That all too familiar agony, starting again.

"Lean on me," Mary instructs as she begins steering Anne through to the next conjoining chamber, away from the sleeping children, where Anne can scream as loud as she likes.

The national crisis had deprived the Queen of her normal confinement. As much as she hated it, she missed it now. That final, precious month of her pregnancy had been spent worrying about her husband, and her brother. Worrying that her children could lose their inheritance, or worse. Worrying that London may join the rebels, and turn on their own King and Queen. The only ray of hope that Anne had received, was the submission of the Lady Mary, who was already on her way to London, to formally submit to the King, blissfully unaware that he is gone from Court.

To distract herself from the early pains of labour, Anne tries to imagine the two of them one day being friends. Before the birth of Prince Arthur, the Imperial Ambassador was putting about rumours that Anne wanted to poison Mary. All nonsense, of course, and the whispering campaign suddenly stopped once she'd secured her position as Queen with the birth of a son. But Anne knows. She knows that she needs Mary's support now, more than ever. If any harm should come to the King, with Mary on her side, she would bring the love of the people with her.

Anne's thoughts are interrupted by another painful contraction that causes her to writhe on the bed that Mary lowered her onto. A groan leaks from between her clenched teeth, and her stomach lurches. It's moving fast. So much faster than the others.

"Mary," Anne gasps as she grips her sister's hands. "Mary stay with me. Don't leave me, I beg of you!"

Mary looks back at Anne with her eyes wide in surprise. "Of course I shall not leave you," She replies soothingly as she starts to rub Anne's back. "I'll be with you, every step of the way."

* * *

><p>The two Henry's sit at the long wooden trestle table in the large, spacious Keep of Pontefract Castle. They both politely decline the wine that is offered to them from large, burnished silver decanters, by roughly clad page boys.<p>

Thomas, Lord Darcy, who's job it was supposed to be to protect the Castle, sits between Robert Ask, and John Constable, the two rebel leaders. Their faces are stony, unreadable, as they sit there glaring at the King and the Marquis. Henry likens it, in his mind, to being stared at by a brick wall.

"Well then," The Marquis breaks the silence as the Page boys retreat from the Keep, back into the scullery they emerged from. "We better begin with your demands."

King Henry sits back in his chair, his chin propped in hand, elbow on the armrest; and regards Robert Ask through narrowed eyes. He is younger than Henry expected. Late thirties. Still handsome, too; and stockily built. Asks cold grey eyes rove over the lines of scrawling ink on the parchment in his hands, and he reads in a firm, confident voice.

"We demand the immediate setting aside of Lady Anne Boleyn. This is because your union is not valid in the eyes of the one, true Catholic Church. As such, the children begotten by Lady Anne Boleyn are illegitimate, and unfit to rule."

Henry lets his hands fall to the arms of his chair, and his knuckles whiten as he grips the wood. His teeth are clenched hard, but he has been dissembling his emotions for years now, and soon forces himself to relax. But in his head, he is imagining the butcher's hook, as it slices through Ask's torso, splitting his vile body into four quarters. As he conjures the images of barbarity to his mind, he even manages a passive smile. His daydreams are interrupted by John Constable.

"We demand, too, that Cromwell, Cranmer and all other heretics be expelled from Government," Constable explains, his gaze darting between Henry, and the Marquis of Exeter. "They shall all be burned at Smithfield."

Henry imagines the four quarters of their bodies being prised apart. He sees the sinews tear, and the muscle rent asunder, as the blood slaps against the wooden scaffold. He hears their dying screams, and carries on smiling as Ask takes up the thread of the conversation.

"The desecration of the Religious Houses is to cease forthwith," He states blandly, offering no justification. "England is to be returned to the Holy See of Rome."

In his head, Henry can see all three of them, Ask, Darcy, and Constable, all slabs of dead meat on the scaffold at Tyburn. Nothing left of any of them but dripping chunks of torn flesh nailed to posts at the four corners of the Realm.

"I agree," King Henry says casually, fighting to keep the images in his head. It was all that was sustaining him. "I believe that you wanted a Council of the North, too. I understand your concerns, and I have heard your protest. I admit, when I first heard of this Pilgrimage of Grace, I was angered. I thought that you were rebelling against me. Now, I know, you were simply rebelling against my policy. If I had known that I was being lied to by Cromwell, and my wife, I would never have agreed to the Reformation."

The Marquis of Exeter remains silent. He studies his fingernails intently all through King Henry's speech, but feels the curious satisfaction swell up in him as the King plays his part well. The three rebels all look duly surprised at the King's ready acquiescence, even feigning shock.

"Your Majesty," Aske rises to his feet and bows low to the King, and Constable does the same. "On behalf of the men of Yorkshire, may I take this opportunity to thank your gracious majesty for your most generous concessions."

"However," Constable, the voice of caution, interjects. "We do require a signature on some documents we have prepared upstairs."

"Of course!" Henry exclaims, as he gets to his feet, ready to follow them to the offices were the legal documents were being drawn up. He reminds himself that he is under no obligation to uphold them.

Henry follows the two men up a narrow, twisting staircase to the top of the North Tower of the Castle. They come to a passage way, at the end of which is a wide, open door. Ask and Darcy stop at either side of the door, and bow low and gesture to Henry to walk straight in. He is almost impressed. At least some of these heathens know how to treat a King. He marches straight in, and sees the document unrolled on a table in the otherwise empty room, making straight for it.

As he picks up the paper, the doors behind him slam shut with such force that showers of dust and loose plaster tumbles from the roof. Shocked, Henry staggers back, dropping the paper and wheels around to face the door he just walked through. It is shut, and he is alone. A heavy bolt is thrown, a key turns in a lock, and then a bar is dropped into the brackets on the other side.

"What is the meaning of this?" He bellows as he runs at the door.

But, already, he can hear the traitor's footsteps receding down the passageway outside. In a blind fury, he kicks at the solid oak door, making an almighty racket as he does so. The door doesn't so much as tremble under his irate blows. Tears of frustration well in his eyes as he wears himself out by beating on the door, first with feet, then with fists. Exhausted, and bruised, he gives up. He turns back into the room, and lifts the paper up again. There is just one word written there. "Checkmate."

* * *

><p>Queen Anne, at the end of a long, exhausting day, cradles her newborn son in her arms, and weeps. Her face crumples, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight, and still the tears course down her cheeks. She cradles him close, trying to draw comfort from her new son. But it is as if the reality of her situation has become all the more real, now that she has a new child to protect.<p>

Her ladies are gone. She dismissed them as soon as she was cleaned up after the birth. Now that she is alone, she lets her fears show. She knows, deep in her fragile heart, that it may be her last chance.


	5. Come What May

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the reviews, I really appreciate all your input. Once again, I own none of the characters, events, or the TV show. I hope everyone enjoys the latest instalment, despite the fact its' been a real tough one to write. Reviews are always welcome, thank you! Apologies if this is a little rambling, too.

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><p><strong>Chapter Five: Come What May.<strong>

The chamberlain bowed deeply to Queen Anne, and took a cautious backwards step. Anne rose to her feet as if on cue, her eyes wide and her expression set in a curious frown. She folded her hands, holding them at her middle as if not quite sure what to do with herself as the double doors of her Presence Chamber slid shut behind the departed Chamberlain. She then composed herself for the umpteenth time, and stared straight ahead, ignoring her aching body, still recovering from the ordeal of delivering Prince William into the world.

Anne's mouth ran dry and her throat constricted, as her gaze hardened on the door as though transfixed by it, as it slowly swung open again to reveal a young, gaunt woman. Her blue eyes were puffy, and bloodshot. Her skin sallow from lack of sleep. But her hair was thick, and lustrous as it fell down to her waist in waves. The two women's gazes locked into each other. Neither one bended the knee to the other. For a moment, Anne thought that they would stay like this all afternoon, just staring each other down.

"Your Majesty," Lady Mary addressed Queen Anne in a firm voice, but her gaze flickered about the room, as though her eyes had developed a nervous twitch. Just words, she seemed to tell herself. Just words.

"Lady Mary. How very good it is to see you." Anne replies, her tone matching that of Mary's. But her gaze was steady, and resolute. Her voice almost toneless.

Anne took an uncertain step forward, and held out her hand to her step-daughter. Mary's twitchy gaze rested on it for a second, before immediately darting away again, refusing to take it. Anne trembled, and let her wavering hand fall limply by her sides. She then thrust her hands on her hips, as though she wasn't really aiming for a handshake, anyway; and hoping that no one had noticed.

"Please, take a seat."

Anne gestured enthusiastically to two chairs near the hearth, and away from the dais where one woman would, inevitably, have been seated higher than the other. It was far too early for that. Servants materialised from the shadows of the chamber, placed trays of refreshments down on the occasional table, before melting away again, affording the two women a semblance of privacy. Their first, delicate, face to face meeting for many a year.

Mary perched awkwardly on the edge of her seat, still not looking directly at Anne. "I hear congratulations are in order," She finally spoke to the far left corner of the room, her voice now tremulous. "On the birth of another Prince?"

For the first time, Anne saw a flicker of emotion in Mary's voice. She detected it in the lilt of Mary's voice. Something like longing. Anne thought for a moment, and chose her words carefully.

"Lady Mary, you are of an age now, whereby, you are as much a mother figure to them, as you are a sister," Anne pauses to study Mary's reaction. The girl doted on Elizabeth; and the boys, she knows, would be no different. "Your services to Elizabeth never went unnoticed, by myself, or your father, the King."

"Do you mean that?" Mary gasps, her eyes misted over as she spoke, and she finally looked up at her step-mother, the far left corner losing it's appeal.

"Mary, you don't have to like me," Anne spoke cautiously again, this time swallowing her pride between each word. "But I know you love your siblings. For their sake, let us stand shoulder to shoulder? Your father still loves you, and I want to be your friend. Can we at least try?"

Anne was aware of how desperate she sounded. But, after so long a silence from the King and her brother, she was beyond caring about appearances. Mary resumed the flickering, darting looks about the Presence Chamber. Anne could see something there. Something struggling to get out, but being held back by unknown, invisible bonds. It was the ghost of her mother, Queen Catherine, still exerting her hold over the former Princess from beyond the grave. Even if Mary wanted to drop her guards, and cast caution to the winds by befriending her step-mother, she cannot. She is in the prison of the passed.

During the uncomfortable silence that fell about the two women, they both reached for the same decanter of wine, at the same time. For a fraction of a second, both women's hands gripped the handle of the silver decanter, before withdrawing at the time as though it had suddenly turned molten hot.

"Oh! Please, you first!" They both exclaimed in unison, finally looking each other in the eye and making direct contact.

Then it happened. Mary smiled. It was a brief, momentary thing. But Anne saw the girl's lips turn at the corners, and break into a smile that died as soon as it was born. Nonetheless, it was there.

"Allow me," Anne said as she poured them both some wine from the decanter. "After this, I was hoping that you would allow me to introduce you to your brothers, Prince Arthur and Prince William?"

"I've been eager to meet them," Mary replies as she finally sits right back in her seat, raising her glass to her lips and sipping at the rich, Burgundy wine. In a shy, whisper of a voice, she added: "I have missed Princess Elizabeth terribly."

The awkward beginning gave way to an awkward silence, which was now filled with awkward small talk. But, to all intents and purposes, they were just two ordinary women, passing the time of day while seated in the broad pool of afternoon late summer sunshine. Look closer, and they danced a delicate jig of diplomacy around each other. Each carefully steering the conversation away from delicate issues, and sticking the well trodden path of small talk niceties. Queen Anne's overt enthusiasm over compensated for Mary's reluctance. Mary, on occasion, would forget herself, and become suddenly animated, before pulling herself swiftly back into check. As each one led the other, the ice slowly began to melt.

"Ambassador Chapuys informed me that you wished to have me poisoned." It came like a bolt out of the blue. Anne was stunned into silence for a moment, before she organised her thoughts into a coherent answer.

"Ambassador Chapuys was lying," She states each word firmly, with finality. But the scepticism was etched in Mary's face. The doubts showed in the way she held her gaze. Anne pressed on. "Your father, the King, was going to take action against you, Mary. Frankly, I wouldn't have needed to poison you."

The words sounded harsh, even to Anne. Mary, on the other hand, seemed mollified. She gave a small nod. "Yes, his excellency mentioned that, too." She stated it all so matter of factly. It seemed anything was all right, so long as it came from Chapuys. "He will seek Papal absolution for my submission to the King, and for talking to you."

Anne was about to reply, when the sound of the Presence Chamber crashing open startled them both. Mary choked on her wine, coughing violently. Anne screamed in fright at the sudden intrusion. As she went to turn on the intruder, she pulled herself up short.

"Cromwell?" She asked, her voice a low whisper. The man was ghostly white, and normally he showed impeccable manners despite his low birth. She knows he wouldn't be doing this for nothing. She, and Mary who is flushed from her coughing fit, rise slowly to their feet and look him up and down in alarm. He stands there, panting for breath and trying to gather his wits. "Cromwell, what's happened? Tell me, please. You can speak in front of the Lady Mary."

"The King, your majesty," He replies breathlessly, remembering to bob a quick bow to the ladies. "It has been confirmed that he is taken prisoner at Pontefract Castle-"

His words are broken off by Mary's gasp of shock. She buckles at the knees, so Anne has to bite down on her own reaction to catch Mary before she falls to the floor among the rushes. But Anne is shaking. Even as she anchors herself to Mary, her body trembles along its' whole length, as her blood turns icy cold.

"Lady Mary requires assistance, now!" Anne snaps at the row of faces partially obscured by the shadows along the walls of the chamber. Someone finally takes the initiative, and helps Mary, lowering her back down to her seat and pushing the glass of wine back into her hands.

"There is more," Cromwell explained, his brow furrowed deep as he looks at the Queen. He casts a furtive glance about the chamber. He drops a hint. A silent request for privacy.

Queen Anne swallowed at the lump forming in her throat, and led the master secretary out of the room. "What more?" She asks, linking her arm through his, and finding a sort of reassurance in his steadiness. "Dear God, tell me he is not dead!"

"No. Your brother, Lord Rochford, was waylaid on the roads to York," He explains in a voice barely above a whisper. "He too is a prisoner. But we don't know where. He is being transported towards York, and we don't even have enough men to make up a search and rescue party!"

Numbness crept in from the tips of Anne's fingers, spreading as fast as a fever to the rest of her body. Her breath came in rasps, and she leant against the cold bricks in the walls for support.

"Where is Norfolk, and Suffolk?" She demands, as she quickly tried to pull herself together. "Where are the Royal Army?" She sees the shadow pass across Cromwell's face. It was brief, but she saw it all the same, and immediately she was bracing herself for yet more bad news.

"The Royal Army is in disarray," He replies. "Furthermore, it seems Exeter has turned his coat, and taken his men to the rebel's side. Suffolk sent me the messages I have passed to you. Norfolk is God alone knows where."

"That bitch, Gertrude Courtenay!" Anne's words carried down the stone passageway, repeating themselves in a booming echo as she propelled herself off the wall and took to pacing around Cromwell's narrow frame. "Lady Exeter came to me the night before George rode out to York, and asked permission to leave court. Which I damn well granted. She's behind all of this, Thomas! Are the rebels marching south? They will be doing so behind Exeter's banner!"

"No. The rebels are in disarray, too. It seems not many of them expected the King to be harmed in any way, and now he is a prisoner, they are panicking. They're in too deep for most of the foot soldiers."

"Are they deserting their army?"

"Not sure, reports are conflicting," Cromwell gives a shake of his head while Anne resumes her pacing. "I've summoned an emergency Council meeting. We'll decide what to do there. You should be there, too."

Anne nodded her head as she continued pacing. Her mind whirled with possibilities, all endless and all complex as they converged or converted. She hadn't time to fall apart now, her family needed her. No matter what, she had to hold it together. She knows all too well what can happen when a King is overthrown, and a mere child left to inherit, and it didn't bear thinking about.

"Thomas," She finally stops pacing, and looks directly at Henry's most trusted minister. "Get my boys to safety. If the rebels are panicking, then Henry is in grave danger. If he is in danger, then my boys are in danger, too."

"France?" He asks, eyebrow cocked. "If it comes to it, we'll have to get them out of the country altogether. I have people we can rely on."

It was the last thing she wanted, but Anne had no choice and France had been her only ally since she came to the throne. They would look after her boys, if Henry was truly overthrown, and the Prince's Protectors all dead. She was about to answer, when another voice across hers:

"I want to help."

Both Anne and Cromwell spun around on their heels to find Lady Mary, standing in the doorway of the Presence Chamber. Her eyes darted between the two of them, and she trembled beneath her corsets, and she clutched at the jewelled crucifix at her throat for dear life. But, her countenance blazed with that all too familiar fierce determination that could erupt from her at any moment. Henry was right about her, Anne thought. She had her mother's courage.

"I'll do whatever it takes. For my father, and brothers," She added with a beguiling simplicity.

* * *

><p>King Henry hoisted himself up to the only window in his cell, by standing on the table which he'd dragged across the room. Outside, the grey skies still brooded over the barren Yorkshire wilderness. Where, far below him, tiny people scurried like so many ants, to and fro, building up great piles of wood. Building something. Maybe a garrison, or a hut. God knows, but the last thing Henry wanted was to hang around long enough to find out.<p>

On his first day in there, he'd kicked and bawled himself into a stupor of exhaustion. Now, he noticed, people dared venture into the room if he was quiet. They brought him food which he ignored, lest it should be poisoned; and they brought him news from outside, whether real or lies, he could not tell. But anything was better than being locked up for hour after hour with no human contact at all.

All of his life, he'd been surrounded by people. People to do everything for him, and with him if needs be. He had someone to assist him in his stool closet. He had a whole team of people to assist him with running the country. Every eventuality covered, from the mundane, right up to the life and death decisions he faced every day. A million times he'd wished them all away. Now that he was alone for the first time in living memory, he'd give his kingdom just to be back down there among them all, again.

Inevitably, his thoughts drifted down the length of the country, to London, where his wife was holding the country together as best she could. Had she had their baby yet? Is it a boy? Is it a girl? Is the baby well? Is Anne well? Or is she sinking beneath the tidal wave of child bed fever, alone and afraid, while he is held prisoner far, far away? His mind rejected those thoughts the moment they manifested themselves. Like there was a filter in his mind that simply sifted them out for the sake of self-preservation. It is a dead zone of the imagination where he simply cannot, and will not, let himself go.

He let out a sigh of boredom and allowed his face rest against the cold glass of the window; watching idly as a hive of little people start building a platform from the stockpile of wood. A high platform, and in the main forecourt for all to see. It is a scaffold, he thinks to himself, and he knows that it's for him. He forced the stream of his conscious thoughts back to the Queen. His imaginative dead zone getting more appealing by the minute, as the scaffold got higher.

From the corner of his eye, in the farthest southern gates of the castle walls, he spotted the closed carriage pulling up along the Castle Keep. A hue and cry went up from someone nearby, and a swarm of souls descend upon the carriage as it bobbed to a halt on the cobbles. Henry lifted himself up as high as he could, and strained his eyes to try and get a look at what was going on. Someone was pulled out of the door of the carriage, but they were restrained. Henry's breath fogged the glass, and every time he tried to wipe it away, his footing slipped, and he lost his vantage point. Not that he could make the person out, anyway. Instead, he hopped back down on to the table he had levered himself up to the window on, and returned to sit in his favourite corner of the cell, in the lukewarm rays of the setting sun.

"They're going to kill me," He spoke to the plain gold crucifix hanging around his throat. As though reminded of that part of his body, he lifted his hands and placed them around his neck, and kneaded gently at the tender flesh there. He pressed against the muscle, the bones of his throat and dug in with his fingers at the hollow. Just one stroke? He asked himself. Maybe two?

"Anne," He whispered her name into the dust as he lay down his head, and closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>"Lord Rochford!" Henry Courtenay laughs as George Boleyn is pulled out of the carriage, his hands bound in tight hemp ropes that have chaffed deeply into his wrists, leaving deep purple welts right the way around them. Henry steps forwards, directly into George's meandering path, and looks down his long, Plantagenet nose at him. "Fancy seeing you here!"<p>

"Your whore of a wife put you up to this, didn't she?" George snaps angrily at him, still struggling violently against the ropes that bind his hands together, as though in a manner of prayer.

"Does it matter who put me up to it, when the end result is just the same?" Henry turns away, his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Take him away. The northern Tower, well away from Henry Tudor."

George abruptly ceases struggling against his captors and his bonds, and stands stock still, just glaring at Henry Courtenay's retreating back, his face frozen in horror.

"What do you mean by that?" He demands, his voice stern and commanding. One of his captors turns and smacks him hard across the face, sending him sprawling onto the dirty cobbles.

Henry Courtenay heard the crushing thump of Boleyn's body hitting the stones, and stopped to savour the moment. He cast a glance casually over his shoulder, his lip cocked into a half-smile.

"Oh, did you not hear? The pretended King of England is also here, safely locked away. Not that that's any concern of yours, of course."

With that, he retreats from view, back into the Castle Keep. George is pulled roughly back to his feet. He feels calloused hands gripping him by the scruff of his neck, forcefully shoving him onwards, pushing him into the main building via the servants entrance.

He chanced a look up at the stark, grey edifice of Pontefract Castle. It's towers are sheer, straight up and down, with no chance of escape. His hopes diminished further still, with every step he took, deeper, and deeper into main Castle. For all he knew, the entire Royal Army was in here already, and their cause was already lost, a long time ago.

Finally, George was roughly shoved into a small, dusty cell with just one window set high in the wall. The ropes were cut from his wrists with a hunting knife, and the wounds burned with a sudden ferocity which had made him gasp, and his eyes water. Finally, he was alone again. He fished inside the pocket of his doublet, ignoring the pain in his wrists as he did so, until he found what he was looking for. He crawled over to where the last rays of sun where slanting through the high, narrow window, and spread out the sheet of parchment on the floor. There, on the creased, mud stained surface of the parchment, were the tiny hand and foot prints of his infant daughter. He lay himself down among the dirty rushes still spread on the floor from God knows when, and willed himself into a state of calm. Come what may, he thinks to himself. Come what may.


	6. The Boy Who Would Be King

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for all the reviews, it's much appreciated, and always welcomed! By way of disclaimer, I own none of the characters, events or the TV show. Thank you to everyone who has read this, and I hope people are getting enjoyment from it. Also, I apologise for the complete lack of Anne in this chapter. The next will be pretty much dedicated to her, to compensate. Please read and review, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Six: The Boy Who Would Be King.<strong>

As soon as he had the strength, George began searching the chamber he was incarcerated in. There was only one way in, and one way out, the door was kept secure; he could make out the muffled voices of at least two guards on the other side. He recalled the narrow, twisting staircase that the guards had led him up to reach this chamber, and knew that an escape from the window would be nigh on impossible. He was so high up, he couldn't even hear the sounds of the thousands of people who swarmed about the Castle grounds.

He waited patiently, while the hours bled into one another, slowly draining away the light of the day. He tracked the moon as it ascended through the heavens, watching as it's thin rays of sickly light finally spilled in through the high, solitary window. At length, the sound of the chatter from the grounds gave way to the sound of gentle, muffled snores as they dozed off. No one came to him. But, if he were being held to ransom, they wouldn't need to. They had his sur coat, so surely that would be sent to the Queen as proof of his captivity, and a ransom note sent with it. That was usually the way. But, it seemed to George, that nothing was as it should be any more.

Although he knew it was hopeless, he dragged the chamber's solitary stick of furniture (a footstool) over to the far wall, and climbed up to try and see out of the window. He couldn't. However, he reached up, ignoring the burning pains in his wrists, and gripped the window ledge for support. He wedged his foot into a hole in the wall where one of the bricks had come loose, and managed to lever himself up to the barred window.

The Castle ramparts stretched out beneath the moonlit sky, as far as he could see. All along the walls, fires were dotted, and flickered the size of candle flames from this high up. He strained his eyes to see the hunched, darkened forms of the rebels as they patrolled the walls, watching for signs of the Royal Army regrouping, and launching a surprise attack.

George lowered his gaze to what lay directly below him, and found that it was as he expected it to be. From this high up, he had no hope of escape. His riding boot scraped against the dusty wall as he let himself hang for second, flat against the wall, before loosening his grip on the window ledge and falling back down to the chair. There was nothing to see, and nothing to do except give in the endless hours of frustration, and waiting.

As he slumped into a small corner of the chamber, coming to rest against the crumbling plaster in the walls, he found that giving up hope of escape freed him up to think of all that he'd left behind with barely a second thought. He was still in his teens when he married Jane. The marriage was arranged by their fathers, for the mutual betterment of their social standing. There were no feelings involved. Just advantage to everyone else involved but themselves. They lay together, two fumbling teenagers, who could have done with labelled diagrams to know what was what, and which bit goes where. No wonder issue was not forthcoming.

Jane would lie there, mute and uncommunicative. He thought she didn't care, and she never forced the issue. Their clumsy, rough fumbles between the sheets melted into embarrassment, which grew into resentment. They had learned to co-exist, and orbit around one another, while he found his pleasure in others. Jane tolerated it. He tried to enjoy it. Then, the abduction happened, and as though a curse had been lifted, a barrier between them broke, and they talked, and they blasted over a decade's worth of minor marital irritations at each other before melting into each others' arms for the first time in their married lives.

Then, the thing that George had thought impossible finally happened, and Jane fell pregnant. They had finally reached a plateaux of marital normality, even mutual affection for one another, only to have it torn asunder by social instability, and open rebellion. The result sits in the cell, cowering against the cold stone walls, wondering where all those lost years went.

It was dawn when the key scraped in the lock of the door. George had dozed into a fitful sleep, but the grating sound jolted him back into consciousness within the beat of his heart. Dazed, disorientated, he jumped to his feet, and flattened himself back against the wall as Henry Courtenay entered, flanked by John Constable and Robert Ask, with an armed guard bringing up the rear.

The early morning sun still cast deep shadows within the room, and the men lined up where George could scarcely make them out. They stood in a crackling silence as they eyed each other from across a small space of floor, until Henry Courtenay stepped into the small pool of sunlight, where George could clearly see him.

"George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, you have been found guilty of heresy, and high treason-"

"By who? On what grounds?" George demands, unable to bite down the anger that swelled inside him. "On what authority can you try me?"

"Why, the Council of the North, of course," Henry's lip curled into a malignant smile as though the answer were perfectly obvious. "Oh, well naturally you wouldn't know. But, prior to his incarceration, the King that was, Henry Tudor, agreed to all of our demands. One of those demands was a Council of the North, to decide on local matters here, independently of London. So that is what we have done!"

"And the Privy Council agreed to this?" George's eyes widen in fear as he predicts the answer.

"We don't need that. Henry Tudor was the supreme head of both Church and state, if you recall," Henry explains to him, as though talking to an obtuse toddler. "We got him to agree to our demands, then we deposed him. We can carry his decisions, if we so desire."

"He is destroyed by his own evil," Constable interjects from the shadows.

"Treason can only be committed against the King. If there is no King, how can I possibly have committed treason?"

They fixed each other with a steely glare, like two jackals waiting to pounce on one another. The boy who would be King. That was what they had all called Henry Courtenay, when he was a child, and King Henry's grip on the crown was far from established. The first cousin, the unacknowledged second in line, who was eventually forced down the pecking order by the arrival of each of Henry's successive heirs. The penny drops, and Courtenay doesn't even bother to answer. All he is waiting for is the Papal edict, procured by Cardinal Pole. All obstacles can be overcome, in the end.

"You will be taken from here, to your place of execution at ten o'clock this morning," Constable informed him, almost casually, but with no malice in his voice. "The headsman is on his way."

George let out a bark of dry laughter. He couldn't stop himself. "You honestly think you can just walk in here, tell me I have been tried and condemned, and think that I will accept this travesty of justice?"

"What choice do you have?" Robert Ask finally spoke. His words met with a murmur of agreement, and an exchange of amused looks between the men. George had no snappy retort.

Business concluded, the men filed slowly from the room. No one looked back, but George watched them leave. As the door clicked shut once again, he let himself slide down the wall, back to the floor. Ask was right. He really did have no choice. He could go, paraded before the populace, kicking and screaming about the great injustice. Or he could go with dignity, and maybe even win a few supporters over for Queen Anne.

George felt the fear lurch in the pit of his stomach, and his head span like a top. Deep within him, though, the decision was made. Die with dignity, and win supporters. All for the greater good.

* * *

><p>Henry was already awake when the door to his cell was opened. He was sat in the corner, soaking up the rays of the early morning sunshine, and looked up expecting to see his usual morning caller, with his breakfast and small ale. He registered no surprise, however, when the delegation from the rebel army filed in. He even managed to contain his fury when Henry Courtenay stepped into the light, while Constable, Ask, and the guards lined the walls behind him.<p>

"Cousin!" The King greeted him, refusing to budge from his favourite spot in the corner. "How lovely to see you."

"You're coming with us," Courtenay brusquely informed him. "Now."

Henry showed no sign of having heard him. He picked up a loose piece of gravel from near his feet, and flicked it across the room, watching it bounce away in to the shadows, before he finally made any remark.

"So, that scaffold is ready, is it?" He asked, diverting his gaze to the wall, hiding his face as he felt himself blanching.

"Yes, it is. Come now," Henry Courtenay nodded to the guards, signalling for them to step in and forcibly wrench the deposed King from the cell, if needs be.

"Oh! No you don't!" Henry snapped at them as he got to his feet and pulled on his riding boots. "I can walk of my own accord, thank you."

The guards formed a circle around him, blocking off all potential escape routes, and began marching him through the Castle. Back the way they came, back down the narrow, twisting stairwells, on to the ground floor, and arrived at a Portcullis. As the barrier was raised, Henry could see clearly what was waiting for him.

As soon as the Portcullis was fully up, a jeer from the crowd rose as he was led towards the high scaffold situated at the opposite end of the forecourt. The crowds parted willingly to let him pass, to ease him along the path to his death. He gritted his teeth hard, grinding the enamels against each other, as he walked through the gaps left by the crowds of peasants. He ignored their cat-calls, and curses, as he mounted the steps to find himself face to face with a hooded executioner. But, within his chest, his heart beat hammered and he searched frantically for the priest who would bless him before his death. Then he remembered that he was an excommunicate. There would be no last rites. No prayers. No forgiveness for his sins. He would be despatched like a lamb in a slaughter house.

As Henry went to move forwards to address the crowds, a hand shot out of nowhere, and gripped his shoulder. He spun around on his heals, finding Henry Courtenay pulling him backwards towards a bench at the back of the scaffold.

"You're too gutless to even let me speak to my own people?" Henry laughed in his cousin's face, but still bewildered by all that was happening to him. "You coward. You fucking-"

"You'll get your chance to speak," Courtenay hissed at him. "When it's your turn!"

"What do you mean, my turn?" Henry demanded, but his voice was tremulous with fear now. In his mind, he expected to see his Generals making their way through the crowds to join him. "Do you have Norfolk here? What about Suffolk?"

The thought of his oldest, childhood companion being here was almost too much for Henry. His gaze darted madly back the way he'd come, and he could see another crowd of guards bearing yet another prisoner towards the scaffold, through a particularly unruly bunch of cowled peasants whose faces Henry couldn't see. Whoever they were, they were certainly enjoying themselves as they elbowed their way to the front of the crowds for the best seats in the house.

"Not Charles," Henry whispered almost silently to himself. He turned back to Courtenay, who simply looked back at him with an infuriating smile on his face.

"You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" He sounded almost coy as he cocked an eyebrow at the former King, and turned his attention to the headsman at his side.

Henry turned back to the guards, squinting to identify the prisoner who was now mounting the steps of the scaffold.

"George!" He cried out in alarm as his brother in law finally emerged beside him.

"Your Majesty," George swept into a low, exaggerated bow before him, making his allegiance more than clear to his captors.

Henry smiled broadly. If he was going out, then, like his brother in law, he was doing so with dignity.

"My Lord of Rochford," Henry called out to George above the deafening roars and heckles of the crowd. The cowled peasants at the front were making an ungodly din by themselves."Good to see you've come to show this rabble how the true nobility behave. But this is really taking things rather too far, don't you think?" George managed a dry laugh in return.

Behind him, Henry Courtenay was mutinous. "For heaven's sake, let's just get this spectacle over with!" He snapped at the headsman beside him.

George surged through his guards and clasped Henry's hands. Henry responded immediately, gripping George tightly as they threw their arms around one another.

"May God go with you, brother," Henry rasped in George's ear as the guards fought to wrench them apart again.

"My King always," George managed to respond before the guards hauled him away. Abandoning caution altogether, he yelled out over the noise "And long live Queen Anne!"

"Enough!" Henry Courtenay's voice cut across the din, and the noise began to die away at once. The restive crowds began to settle as they scented the blood about to be spilled, and they all looked up at George, now standing at the lip of the platform. He looked out over the sea of wide eyed, expectant faces, as the last of them finally realised that the moment had come.

"Good Christian people," He addressed them in a clear, firm voice that didn't waver once, but he made the speech up as he went along. "I stand before you here today, condemned to die for crimes unknown to me, but I go to my death with a good will and humbly seeking pardon from almighty God, and from you. As it teaches us in the Gospel to readily seek forgiveness for our trespasses, I also readily forgive those who have trespassed against me." He stops and turns to look directly at Henry Courtenay, who pretends he hasn't heard the speech, and glowers into the distance.

George has nothing more to say, so after one final, look along the rows of faces, noting the rowdy peasants, who seemed to be wearing silver breast plate under their habits of rough wool, he took a step back. The block was low on the ground, with just a small bed of straw at it's base. His heart beat jumped as he knelt before it, and reached out his hands to feel for the corners before lowering his head down onto the roughly hewn wood.

He closed his eyes as he settled his throat over the cup that had been chiselled into the block, and maintained his grip on the corners while he composed himself to utter one final prayer of contrition before committing his soul unto the hands of God. Stretching out his arms, he turned his face to the east.

"Executioner, strike home!" He called out, refusing to show any of the fear that he felt pounding through ever fibre of his being.

For a moment, nothing happened. His final thoughts drifted over to the folded piece of parchment still tucked into the pocket of his doublet. The hand prints of his infant daughter. He thought of the child he would never see blossoming into a woman. The child who's first footsteps he would never witness, and who's first words he would never hear. He thought of the father he would never now get to be.

The axeman aligns the stroke of the blade against the exposed flesh and bone at the back of George's neck. He feels the cold, steel blade dig in, stinging as it marks it's homeward path through his neck. He thinks of Anne. Of the final time he saw her, standing at the window as he rode out of the Palace, bound for York. He remembered seeing her face retreating from the window, and vanishing from his view. He signalled his love, but he doesn't think she saw it.

The pressure of the blade lifted from the back of his neck. The axeman ready to take the first, and hopefully only, stroke. George is only vaguely aware of it, now. He thinks of them all together. Anne, Mary, Jane, and daughter Anne. Then, he remembered tumbling through the chest high grass in the grounds of Hever Castle when they were children. If only they could have stayed that way.

Above his head, the whoosh of the axe gliding through the air does not register with him. But, the crowds recoil as the blade cuts easily through sinew and bone, and George's head falls with a scratchy thud into the dry bed of straw at the base of the block.

King Henry watched as George's body folded back from the block, and a torrent of blood gushed out over the wood in a great pool. A wave of nausea crashed over him, but he refused to let it show, and swallowed at the acrid bile that his throat. George had shown nerves of iron, and unyielding strength in death, and he resolved to do the same. George's courage would now be Henry's.

As one, all of the guards descended on George Boleyn's broken body. Henry Courtenay turned and descended the steps to speak with someone below the scaffold, and for a moment, Henry was as good as alone, while everyone else was distracted. That was all it took.

At first, he thought the rowdy peasants at the front were simply dipping their rags into George's blood for good luck, it was age old custom. But their surge forward did not stop at the edge of the scaffold. They seized their opportunity while the guards were busy with George's body. They leap- frogged up on the scaffold in unison, and drew out battle swords from deep within their habits, which fell askew, to reveal glittering, silver armour.

"Henry run!" A voice bellowed out as a mêlée of violence erupted all around the King, who found himself surrounded by his own soldiers who'd infiltrated the Castle Keep.

"Charles!" Henry called back, desperately searching for his friend among the clashing fighters. A pair of strong, but thin arms gripped him around the middle, and started pulling him back.

"God's death!" The Duke of Norfolk's furious voice shouted out, heard clearly above the noise. "Get this on, and get out of here!" He bellowed, and shoved his discarded peasants habit at Henry, before running into the thick of the fighting which spread rapidly from the scaffold, onto the whole of the Court yard as the rebels realised what had happened.

Henry disguised himself, but slipped in George's blood as he made a run for cover. Another set of anonymous arms hauled him back to his feet, and even took the time to pull his habit down properly, before pushing him roughly off the scaffold and on to the ground among the confused riot that broke out in a heart beat.

Not wasting any more time, Henry fled into the thick of a crowd of terrified onlookers who'd turned to flee the fighting in pure terror. He yelled as loudly as the rest of them, trying to blend in as he ran for the great Castle gates. He tried to see if he could spot Henry Courtenay, but it was impossible. No doubt, Courtenay was looking for him, too. Henry pulled himself together and ran, not stopping until he was safely beyond the gates of the Castle and back in the rugged wilderness of the Yorkshire Dales.


	7. Actions Make A Queen

**Author's Note:** Thank you again for all the reviews, it means a lot to me! I don't own any of these characters, events, or the TV show, (sadly). Thank you again for reading this fic. Reviews much appreciated!

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven: Actions Make A Queen.<strong>

Queen Anne looked around at all the other faces in the Council Chamber. She coolly assessed each one in turn, and they all looked back at her; wide-eyed, and apprehensive. The silence weighed heavily on them all as they waited for her to speak, and eventually, as her narrowed eyes fell on Henry Pole, Baron Montague, she ended their wait.

"Your brother, the Cardinal," Her voice, deceptively light, rings across the Council Chamber. "Has he not stirred up this rebellion by spewing out his hatred from across the safety of the continent?"

She leaned back in her chair, her arms hanging casually off the rests, as she watches Henry Pole bristle at her address. His brow furrowed as he calculated his response under her unyielding gaze.

"Both my mother, and I, have roundly condemned Reginald's actions," He states in a flat, toneless voice. "We have been in contact with him, and told him in no uncertain terms, to cease and desist with his treason."

"Yet, still he persists?"

"We're not his keepers," A flicker of irritation shakes his voice. "He is his own man."

Anne's gaze flickers to the armed guards who've taken up station by the Council Chamber doors. Her mind is made up. Her decision final.

"Perhaps, if there were to be some ramification for his family, he may think twice before he next encourages these traitors," She pauses to thoughtfully scrutinise her long, tapering fingers. "My husband, the King, and my brother, Lord Rochford, are held prisoner because of your brother's actions. Now, your mother, the Countess of Salisbury, is an elderly lady who would not last in the Tower. Your brother, Arthur, has recently died. Your sister, Ursula, is with child. Your other brother, Geoffrey, well-" She gives a dry laugh. "Well, let's just say he's been a friend of ours for some time, now. And that leaves you, Baron Montague."

"You want me to stand as surety for Reginald's good behaviour?" He asks, his face taking on a stricken look. "And, if Geoffrey is, as you term it, a friend of yours; although I call by it's proper name, which is spy, then he can vouch for the loyalty of my whole family!"

He suddenly pushes back his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the flagstones, catching the attention of the guards who suddenly stiffen, gripping their halberds tighter. But Pole stops there, and remains seated. Anne barely deigns to notice it, but the other Councillors' all snap around to fix the Baron in their curious stares.

"Let me spell it out to you plainly, my Lord Montague," Anne explains, her voice still chiming sweetly across the chamber, as though it were nothing but a summer fête. "Your brother has started this rebellion. Now, if anything should happen to my kinsmen, including the King, my brother, or my children, you shall be the one who pays the price. That is how surety works, is it not? It's like being a whipping boy. Unfair, but effective for the potential miscreant."

This wasn't why she fought so hard to be Queen, and her decision weighed heavily on her mind. Montague had, personally, done nothing against her. But while Reginald Pole cowered behind the Pope's skirts to spew out his venom, she was left with no choice; Henry Pole is the strongest bargaining tool that she has. The Council had urged her to take the Countess, Margaret Pole, as surety. But, she would not hear of it. She could not imprison, and potentially execute, an old woman.

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Henry Pole rises to his feet, and ducks into a small bow, but his jaw is set with anger. "But be aware that Reginald listens only to the Pope, and my only crime is my unfortunate kinship."

The guards close around him, forming an instant bubble of security, before leading him from the Chamber. They're taking no chances, and it's straight for the Tower for Pole. Those are the rules of counter rebellion.

"Sir Thomas," She addresses Cromwell. "Ensure the Cardinal is informed that we have his brother held prisoner, and should he continue in his actions against us, Montague will face the consequences. I'm sure a Holy man such as he, would not have his own brother's death on his conscience."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Cromwell nods in return. "Sir Richard, and I, have secured safe passage to France for the two Princes. Your sister, Lady Stafford, is to accompany them as head of their household, and a wet nurse will also be sent for Prince William."

"Thank you, Thomas," Anne replied, her voice thick with suppressed emotion. She lowered her face so the men in the room would not see her eyes veiled in tears at the thought of her boys leaving her. But, with England in such a tumult, she has no choice. Two little Princes went to the Tower before hers, and they were never seen again. She, Anne, will be taking no such chances. "They will return the minute this rebellion is suppressed, and the traitors all put to death." She spoke more to reassure herself, than to explain to the Councillor's before her.

"On that front," Sir Richard Rich spoke up. "The Tower has been emptied of shot, cannons and guns. Every piece of ordinance that we have is now headed north to York, and Lincoln. The Earl of Essex, and the Earl of Oxford are both leading armies to those areas to put down any uprisings. Also-"

Sir Richard was cut off by the Council Chamber door flying open. Lady Mary stood on the threshold, panting, and gripping the crucifix at her throat so tight, Anne thought her fingers might start to bleed. Mary's eyes shone with fear as she scanned over the faces who glared back at her, and the guards bar her path. It had been a big enough challenge for the Council to admit one woman, but two in one day would likely give most of them heart attacks. Only Cromwell's intervention had saved the day for Anne. Now, he was doing the same for Mary.

"God's death, will you admit the Lady!" He commanded as the men all stiffly bowed to her.

"Forgive me!" She struggles for breath as she speaks, entering the Chamber as though she were breaking in. Anne sees' the girl's hair in disarray, and wonders if she has been attacked. "There is news.. Terrible news..."

"Mary, what has happened? Is it the King?" Anne rises to her feet and closes the gap between them, helping her into the seat left vacant by Henry Pole. Mary's face is flushed, and her eyes widen in fear as she struggles to find the right words.

"Lord Rochford has been executed at Pontefract Castle," She explains, her voice hoarse, as she shakes her head sadly.

The news hits Anne like a boot to the gut. The force of it sends her staggering back into Thomas Cromwell's arms as he sees what's happening and catches her backwards fall.

"He is dead?" She asks, bewildered and overwhelmed. "No, no it cannot be." Her voice is distant, her eyes unfocussed as her brain shuts out the unwelcome news, as though it were an intruder upon her consciousness. She thinks of him, when she watched him leave the Palace to ride north. She thinks he looked up and saw her wave him off, but she doesn't know if she just imagined it.

"They sent his head in a box, with a piece of parchment," Mary elaborates, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "The paper had a baby's hand prints on it. The head was in a separate box, and sent as proof that it is him. There is no doubt."

There could be no denial, now. She felt a knot of pain tightening in her breast, choking the breath in her lungs, and squeezing at her heart. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth... And a brother for a brother? Anne pushed the thought out of her head, but it was tempting. So very tempting.

"Cromwell," Anne said as she eased her trembling body back into her chair. "Ensure that Gertrude Courtenay is found, I want her in the Tower before the week is out. And talk to Geoffrey Pole, again. See if he has any new dirt on his family."

"There is more," Lady Mary explains as she moves over to Anne. "There was an attack on Pontefract Castle, just after Lord Rochford's execution. The King escaped unharmed, but was unable to engage the enemy, and was forced to flee the battle on Suffolk's command."

"The King is at liberty?"

"Then there is still hope," Richard Rich tries to reassure the Queen.

* * *

><p>Hope. It was like Pandora's Box. Together, Henry and Anne had picked the lock open, and all hell had broken loose. Now, all that was left to her was one small ray of hope. Her husband was free, but at the expense of her brother's life. Bitter tears of regret trickled from her eyes as she lay, secluded and concealed by her bed hangings, in her Privy Chamber. Outside, darkness had fallen, and her ladies lurked in the outer chambers, waiting for something, anything, to happen.<p>

Inside the Chamber, Anne rolls over on to her back, her body kneading at the feather mattress beneath her. Memories of her brother rear up in her mind at random. A disjointed, disconnected parade of images, slowly meandering across her mind's eye. His loss didn't seem real. The absence of him not yet recognised in her numb disbelief.

Beyond the drawn hangings, the chamber door clicks open and soft footsteps crunch against the dried, scented rushes that line the flagstone floor.

"Anne," Her father's voice drifts softly across the space between them. Slowly, she sits up and pulls back the hangings to reveal her whereabouts.

"Father," He looks drawn. Like part of him has died, which in effect, it has. She had seen him in all sorts of states, and moods. But, never like this. "Sit down, please."

"You've heard?" He asks, but the question is purely rhetorical. "You're mother.." His words break, and melt into the pained silence. He shakes his head slowly. "I think that she will die for grief."

Anne always forgets that they married for love. Her mother, a member of the mighty Howard clan, had foregone her rights, and married for love; just as She, and Mary had done. Then, an idea occurs to her. Something to occupy his mind.

"Father, perhaps you should visit your Earldom," She suggests. "Wiltshire. You are the local Lord, there. Raise more men, and send them North. They are bonded to you. While you are there, pay a visit to the Seymour's at Wulfhall. See what they're up to. Send mother to me, she will not die for grief if we get our revenge against these people."

* * *

><p>The following day dawned with the promise of the approaching autumn. The sun still shone in the clear blue skies, but there was a cutting chill that smarted against the skin. The trees grew over heavy, their leaves darkening, and curling at the edges as the year died away. From inside the Privy Chamber, Anne watches as the first leave drift, buffeted by the winds, to the earth.<p>

In the room with her, Jane Parker nurses her infant daughter. She looks down at the suckling infant through puffy red eyes, and an expression washed blank by raw grief. Lady Mary sits stiffly by the fire, watching the tongues of flame lapping against one another as they reduce the logs of wood at their heart to cinders.

"Any plans for Henry Pole?" Jane asks, her voice toneless, devoid of enthusiasm.

"George was executed before we took him in for surety," Anne explains, heavy with regret. "It would be an injustice-"

"Who're they to speak of injustice?" Jane demands. Anne is about to retort, when Mary suddenly pipes up, and does it for her.

"If we go ahead and execute Pole now, we would play into their hands. Let them know that we have him, and if the Cardinal continues, we will be justified in taking his brother's life. That's how it goes. We must stick to the rules, especially when they break them. Actions make a Queen, my mother taught me that."

Jane jerks up her head to watch Anne's reaction. But Anne swiftly bites down her irritation, and suppresses her discomfiture at the mention of the former Queen. She knows that Mary is right. Anne will be judged on her actions, now more than ever.

"When England was threatened by the Scots, your mother led the troops herself, didn't she?" Anne asks, pacing over to her step-daughter, her mind racing ahead of itself. Mary returns her gaze, glowing with pride.

"Yes, she did."

"Then that is what we will do," Anne states with finality. The other two women look back at her, uncomprehendingly. "Its' obvious, isn't it?"

Evidently not. "Jane, leave little Anne with her nurses, and ride out to Rochford to raise your retainers, and the local men. I can raise my men in Pembroke. They're bound to us under laws of Lordship to fight for us. Mary, you can ride North. Raise another army as you go. Men will flock to your banner."

"Then we can meet at York," Mary adds, her face flushed with animation as thought the life had suddenly been forced into her tenfold. "Once we've raised the whole country under the Tudor banner, we can meet, and merge and the rebels wouldn't stand a chance."

"It seems we understand each other, Lady Mary," Anne beams. Jane now stands, still clutching little Anne to her breast.

"Well, I never was one to shy away from a fight," She winks at the other two. "Now, I have a damn good reason to fight."

"Henry commanded me to retreat to the Tower if the rebels made advances south," Anne recalls aloud. "I pray he won't be angry for breaking those commands-"

"You cannot retreat. You must stand and fight!" Mary exclaims, impassioned now, as she circles the room in agitation. The plan formulated, she is itching to go. Her ever restless gaze comes to a rest on the stables outside the windows. Already picking out her strongest horse.

"Get all our ladies to stitch the banners and standards. We have an army to muster, and a Realm to secure." With that, Anne sweeps from the Chambers, Mary and Jane trotting in her wake.


	8. No Time To Cry

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the reviews, I really appreciate them! Well, here's chapter eight, and I hope everyone continues to enjoy the story. As ever, I own nothing. Please read, and reviews are very much appreciated, thank you again!

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight: No Time To Cry.<strong>

Lengths of fabric were strewn about the Privy Chamber, hanging from every hook, and draped across every surface. The whole scene a riot of colour as the women sat hunched over their needlework, sewing together great banners and standards for the Queen's Army. By day, they spread themselves out in the broad sunshine that spilled through the great windows, and by night they squinted through the gloom of the candlelight, their fingers nimbly working non-stop at the stitches. They chatted animatedly as they worked, but their minds never left the job at hand. The badges and emblems of Lady Mary, Rochford, Pembroke, Tudor, and Boleyn were embroidered into every spare length of fabric they could get their hands on. Anne and Jane even cut up some of their old gowns, to be recycled into a Royal Standard that would lead their troops into battle, and provide a rallying point when the unavoidable fight happened.

By day, Anne would ride out to the Tower, and watch as every gun, cannon, and long bow was unloaded, and despatched north to await her men. It was on the second day, while riding through the Tower market, that she struck up conversation with some of the City Merchants. Her guards, used to trouble following the Queen like a stray dog, hugged close to her horse, keeping the citizens at bay while Anne went about her business. But, Anne saw the concern etched in the faces of the citizens, and waved the Yeomen away.

London is a city built on foreign trade, and the Merchants fear the disruption in the North will have ramifications for them. It would knock the confidence of foreign investors, who would take their business elsewhere, leaving the Londoners out of pocket. These people had parents, and grandparents who'd lived through the dynastic wars, and heard tales of how their trades were nearly bankrupted by the fighting, even though it was happening at the opposite end of the country, usually.

Before the Merchants had finished, the Craftsmen, and Guilds men had drifted over, and added their own worries. The crowd about Queen Anne swelled, and she listened to each and every one of them, as they spilled their fears. Then the weavers, who wove the cloth to sell to the traders had come over. This disruption would be costing them all dearly, if it spread, or went on for too long. The apprentices, too, were fearful. No trade meant no money to hire them, or maintain their employment. For several hours, Anne listened, before seizing the moment.

"Good people," She addressed them all in as loud a voice as she could muster. The crowds were so swollen now, that not many could make out what she was saying, and so a young apprentice boy stepped forwards to help her remount her horse, so everyone could at least see her. From the top of her Palfrey, she could see the vast sea of faces that now spread out before her, and her heart hammered in her ribcage. Never before, had she addressed such a vast number of people. But when she spoke again, she did so with the pride of her convictions.

"Good Christian people, I have come among you all today to supervise the preparations for the suppression of the rebellion in the North. My promise to you is that your livelihood will be secured, your businesses, trade, and wages will be made safe from rebellious, misinformed and ignorant persons who seek to destabilise this whole Kingdom. I will not let them win!-"

Her address was broken off by a wall of cheers, whistles, and shouts of encouragement, that made her heart soar. For the first time since Prince William was born, her face lights up in a wide beam, and her eyes well with tears. As soon as the din dies down again, she continues with her address, noting the look of expectation in every face before her.

"Being a Queen is not about being shut away in a Palace, wearing pretty gowns and jewels. Being Queen is about what we do in times of crisis. Now that the darkest hour is upon us, I promise to stand shoulder to shoulder with all of you, and see this through to the very end with you, my people. Ride with me, to the North. Follow my banner, and together we will secure the Realm for ourselves, and for our children. Speak with my guardsmen, and come to the Palace on the morrow, and we will begin to fight back!"

The crowds hung on her every word, and only dispersed when implored to search their homes, and workhouses for potential weapons to bring north with them. Anne waited patiently on horseback, she wanted to lead the procession through the now darkening streets, back to the Palace where they would be fed from the Royal Kitchens before the northwards march the next morning. She could feel victory within her grasp, already. But, as she waited, a movement sighted from the corner of her eye caught her attention. At first, she thought it was nothing more than a shifting shadow. But, then a woman dressed in a rough woollen tunic stepped from the shadows, clutching a bundle that writhed in her arms. The woman's hair was unkempt, and her skin was burned from working a forge. She kept her knees bent as she approached Anne, who once again dismounted her horse, unsure of what was happening.

"Your majesty," The woman's voice was hoarse, and her face turned to the ground, still clutching the writhing bundle that was obviously her baby. "My son is sick."

"Let me hold him," Anne replies gently as she holds out her arms to receive the child. She cradles the baby, who's flushed face peeps out from the dirty sheet he is wrapped in. She balances him in the crook of her arm, and with her right hand, she makes the sign of the cross on his burning forehead. "By the grace of God, I command you to be healed. I bless this child." She seals her words with a kiss against the child's sunken cheek before handing him back to his overwhelmed mother. The odour of body waste hung about the child like a foetid cloud. Anne reaches into her small purse that she kept with her, and handed the mother some coins.

"He needs new swaddling cloths," She spoke gently, their poverty was no fault of the mother's. "Make sure that he gets them."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," The woman's voice is now heavy with emotion as she opens her palm to look at the coins there, and gushes her gratitude as she shrinks back into the lengthening shadows.

"May God go with you, and have no fear," Anne tries to reassure her as she departs back whence she came. Finally, the people are approaching her, and doing so as their Queen.

"Now I am indeed Queen," She whispers into the still evening air.

* * *

><p>Thomas Cromwell. Everywhere at once, doing everything at once, and never stopping to so much as draw breath. If he was born a woman, they'd all think him a witch with his remarkable ability to seemingly be in several places at once. Anne had meant to find for him a wife, to bring him cheer. But, he wouldn't hold still long enough to exchange the vows. She'd seen him in the Council Chamber, in his offices, down at the Tower supervising the moving of the cannons, and he'd secured safe passage for the children, all in one day. Now, once again, he was being ushered into her Presence Chamber before she was just about to leave for the North.<p>

"Your Majesty," He sunk into a deep bow, looking completely unruffled for all his hectic schedule. "I have just had a meeting with Geoffrey Pole, and I think you ought to see this. It's a letter from Henry Pole, addressed to Reginald Pole."

Anne takes the proffered letter, and paces the length of her Presence Chamber while she scans over lines. She feels her temperature rise in indignation the further down the page she gets. Angrily, she mutters phrases and sentences to herself, as though she can't quite believe what's written there.

"I like well the proceedings of my brother, the Cardinal, but I like not the doings of this Realm. The world in England waxes all crooked," She mutters as she pauses to look up at Cromwell. "Well, thats' treason, right there!"

"Read on, Your Grace, look at the post script," Cromwell nods, indicating that she hasn't yet got to the best part. Anne turns her attention back to the letter.

"The King may have eluded captivity, but he will die suddenly, one day, and Lady Exeter promises a jolly stirring in the North when that happens," Anne places the letter down on a nearby tabletop, but she can't tear her eyes away from it. "The King could walk into that bitch's trap at any moment."

"Your father checked up on the Seymour's as you asked," Cromwell explains, a flicker of triumph in his smile. "The elder brother, Edward, gave her money and food to see her on to York where she could join her husband, and promised to join her later. But, he only did so with the intention of betraying her. He is for the King's Army. At least we know where she is."

"Edward Seymour did that?" Anne sounds sceptical.

"It's no surprise. Edward is a staunch reformer," Cromwell explains. "He has no ties at all to this rebellion; and his youngest sister, Elizabeth, and my son Gregory, have been making eyes at one another for months, now. We're sorting out a betrothal to bind our families closer together. It will be good for the Reformation."

"And Jane Seymour is now safely married off?" Anne asks, and Cromwell nods affirmation.

"To William Dormer, another one of our men."

* * *

><p>The camp belonging to the Royal Army had been overrun with rebels by the time Henry got out of Pontefract. He had hoped to hide there until he Generals had finished engaging the rebel leaders within the castle walls, perhaps to even rearm and join them in the onslaught. But, he didn't have the opportunity to seize a horse.<p>

Instead, he wrapped the rough woollen cloak tighter around his shoulders, and ran as fast as he could down the narrow country lanes. He strayed off the main roads, became hopelessly lost, before backtracking once again to the main roads to London.

Separated from his troops, he didn't want to go too far from the York border, but he needed to stay out of sight of the rebels, too. Eventually, as the sun began to set, he came to a rest on a grassy verge, gratefully taking the weight off his aching feet as the cool evening set in. He stayed there, waiting to see if any travellers came by, who may have news of what was happening within the City itself. But none came by, undoubtedly put off by the threat of violence that hung over the whole county now, like a Damocles Sword, threatening to fall at any second, and smite them all.

He remained, torn in two about his next course of action while clusters of stars began to twinkle teasingly down at him from the clear night sky. Should he use the cover of darkness to get as far away as possible? Or should he stay put, and wait until it is safe enough to venture back to the army camp? His whole body ached with exhaustion, which drugged his mind and he found he couldn't even concentrate on formulating a plan.

So, he sat propped up against the roadside verge, and let himself doze fitfully beneath the open skies. He didn't mind the cool breeze that buffeted him as he lay there. His mind fixed on it, as the distant sounds of nocturnal beasts foraging in the undergrowth finally lulled him into a proper sleep.

* * *

><p>"Your Majesty."<p>

The woman's voice pierced his ebbing slumbers, but he didn't open his eyes immediately. He thought that it might be Queen Anne, come to wake him. But, then he remembered all that had happened to him over the last few weeks. Then, as his brain catches up with the rest of his body, he feels something cold, and sharp digging into his throat.

His eyes snap open, and he tries to sit bolt upright. Just in time, he realises that there is a tip of a sword trained at the exposed, delicate flesh of his throat. His heart beat races, and he looks up slowly into the face of Gertrude Courtenay. Insults, tirades, and vitriol tumbled into his mind, but with the sword at his throat, he bit deeply into his tongue.

All around Gertrude, stood retainers in the Exeter's livery. All her men, guarding her like savage dogs. They were all armed, and they answered only to her, and her husband. She took a deep, steadying breath, but her hand on the sword never wavered. She held the blade unflinching, pressing it deep into his throat.

"Well, well, well," She cooed infuriatingly down at him, where he still hunched against the grass verge. "Up you get, you're coming with us back to York."

She smiled a cold smile as her prisoner rose slowly to his feet, and kept the sword trained on him every inch of the way. He opened his mouth to speak, but she jabbed him painfully with the sword, and hushed him like he was a naughty school boy protesting against a whipping. She tightened her grip on the sword, and nodded to her men to surround the King.

"Secure him, and march him back to York through the streets," She coolly instructed them. "Make sure the people see that the Tudors are quite fallen. Any trouble, guard him and push through. I want him kept alive so all the people of York can see him executed."

* * *

><p>Jane Boleyn rode out of the Palace first. She had to reach Essex to raise her dead husband's affinity to arms, and then begin the long march north to York. However, she'd already marked out the shortest route, and her men would enter York via the eastern gates, and cut the rebel army off from that direction.<p>

Lady Mary then left a few hours later. Surrounded by a small group of guards, she would muster troops from every town, city and village she rode through. Her men would block the rebels from the southern gates of York. She wrote to her kinsmen in Scotland, advising them to be on the look out for a retreating rebel army that may pass their way, for Queen Anne would complete the attack, by blocking the rebels from the west.

Finally, the moment came for Anne to lead her already formidable army north. She looked back over her shoulder, at the flags and standards fluttering in the cool breeze, standing out starkly against the clear blue skies. Slowly, she turns her face to the North from atop her great, white palfrey horse, and takes the lead. Drummers beat out the advance warning of her arrival. Either side of her, two strong archers grip the poles at that hoist her Boleyn falcon standard, and as one, they all begin the forwards march.


	9. The Return Of The King

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for the reviews, it means a lot, and is highly encouraging. Anyway, here's chapter nine, finally completed. I still don't own any of the characters, history or the TV show. Thanks again, and reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome. Thank you, again!

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine: The Return Of The King.<strong>

A blanket of iron grey clouds loured over the bleak Yorkshire landscape; clouds which wept a fine drizzle mist over the endless streets of squat, tumble-down houses. The streets, lined with filth as middens spilled their toxic waters over the cobblestones, rendering them treacherous under foot, and appalling to look at. The whole of Yorkshire looked like an accident that everyone forgot to mop up.

From all around the captive King, curious faces peered from the holes in the walls of the houses. From the richer homes, fat goodwives leaned out of second storey windows, their arms folded and their faces like battle axes, glaring at him as he passed. Small, bare footed, dirty faced, feral street urchins scurried like rats in his wake. Silence. The silence smothered the scene like the shroud of Turin. It subdued his anger, and quelled his emotions as he passed his subjects. Even as he passed the lively markets, the patrons and traders alike stopped, frozen like statues, to watch him as he was prodded past them at sword point by Lady Exeter's men.

He noticed, too, that there is almost no colour here. Apart from the green of the fields, and the red in the faces of the homeless alcoholics, everything else was an earthy brown. From the faces of the children, to the beaten earth streets of the Cities' poorer districts. Even the gurgling river that meandered through the towns blended in with everything else. Everything coated in a soft sheen of liquefied filth. Never in his life had King Henry felt so far from London.

Henry's stomach lurched as, high above him, a window was flung open, swiftly followed by the wet slap of the contents of a chamber pot being tossed out and on to the cobbles at his feet, and splashing over his riding boots. He allows himself a wry smile at the thought of providing at least one person with some entertainment, this day. Sure, wasn't that what his Court was famous for? It's lavish entertainments. It felt perversely good to be the one giving the entertainment, for a change. He would have waved to the chamber pot thrower, if he could have.

Finally, something almost dazzlingly white loomed on the horizon. A typical brick and timber house. Whitewashed, with pitch black support beams. Glass windows, a rare luxury in this City, glimmered dully in the weak light of the day. He felt the guards prodding him towards it. His new prison, until they knew it was safe to return him to Pontefract Castle. It left him wondering what on earth was going on back at the fortress, that he couldn't just be slipped quietly over the draw bridge, and under the portcullis.

As they drew level with the three storey house, rough hands gripped his upper arms, and another, the scruff of his neck, pinning him firmly in place before the black oak door. Finally, Lady Exeter appeared from the heart of the small procession, and knocked firmly on the door, making it rattle in it's frame. She daintily nipped at the tips of the fingers of her riding gloves, and slid them gracefully from her hands while the footsteps from within the house grew steadily louder. The door creaked loudly on it's hinges as it swung open.

"Husband," Gertrude Courtenay greeted him without even looking up. "Look who I found on the roads."

"Better bring him in, then," Henry Courtenay remarks with a dry laugh as he looks the bedraggled form of the King, still pinned in place by the guards, before him. He steps aside, and gives the door a push, letting it swing fully open to admit them. Gertrude waits until they're all safely inside, but lingers in the doorway, alone with her husband.

"Now is your chance," She whispers as she steps inside, closing the door with a gentle snap as she goes. "Don't let him get away a second time. Do it tomorrow, in the market square."

He pulled her deeper into the hallway, securing the door behind her, as though that would protect them from some unseen assassin who lurked in the streets beyond. His brow furrowed darkly as he replied, picking his words with care, lest she should think he is losing his nerve.

"Its' not as simple as that," He whispers low, leaning in close to her ear and trailing kisses down her throat. "Why don't we just keep him alive for a day or so, and see if we can get him to agree to a formal deposition? It would expedite matters considerably."

She peers at him, refusing to return his affections, straining her eyes to keep him in focus in the poor light.

"You have to get rid of him, Henry," She warns. "The sooner the better. We need to end this, now!"

"And, I will!" He states firmly, tilting her head towards his face, making her look at him. "But if we get him to agree to this, then the Royal Army will have to retreat, and the Queen can be legally neutralised. Don't you see the benefits? All those legal matters cut through in a trice."

Gertrude sighs wearily, but at the same time, realises the futility of any further arguments. She gives a small shrug, and a nod. "As you see fit, husband. But for God's sake, and our own, act quickly."

* * *

><p>Under the same iron grey skies, Lady Mary tears through the rolling English countryside on the back of a chestnut Destrier. The animal was one of her father's war horses, but she didn't think he'd mind her borrowing him. The wind and the drizzle whipped into her face, blurring her vision and numbing her raw skin. But in every town she rode through, she would slow her whole procession right down. She addressed her people in a loud, clear voice; commanding them to take up arms in the name of Christ, St George, and King Henry.<p>

The people watched her in awestruck admiration, and called her "Princess". They all thought her mother was back from the dead, and infusing the girl with her fighting spirit; and Mary thought it prudent not to disabuse them of their superstition. The further north she got, the more profound her influence became. No one dared resist her, nor did they wish to.

To the east, Jane Parker did what she could. Never, in her whole life, had she ever imagined ever having to do anything like this. Flowery, provocative speeches were something she had never been trained for. She was a wife, and a landlady. She roused every landlord in the local area, and commanded them to raise the populace on her husband's behalf, while she raised her own tenants herself. Her northward journey from Rochford took her through Kent, where the countries best archers could be found.

She did all that she could to assemble a support army, and it was enough to plug the western gap in the Royal Army's defences.

Queen Anne came north via the west of the country. Travelling through her own territory of Pembroke, where men were obliged to flock to her banner in times of unrest. Then, it was on along the banks of the river Severn, through Bristol, and Gloucestershire on the English side of Offa's Dyke, which separated the Welsh principality from the rest of the Realm.

The further north she rode, the further she seemed to leave the last of the summer weather behind her. The roads became rougher, and the countryside became wilder, all slowing her procession that had swelled to thousands, down further. But, no matter what, she made sure that the people knew she was coming. Outriders rode on ahead, drummers heralded her arrival, and criers sent out rallying cries to the townsfolk.

Overnight, she stayed in manors belonging to local Earls, or Marquises; but her army marched on into the lengthening nights under orders to engage the rebel forces as soon as they came into contact with them. Then finally, after a week on the road, spent mostly in the saddle, she reached Yorkshire late in the evening of her seventh day of travel. A messenger from Jane informed her that the Rochford contingent was already in place, and waiting to go. By the eighth day, an outrider, spattered in mud and heavy with exhaustion, appeared from Lady Mary's train. She, too, was finally in place. All Anne had to do, was give the signal to her generals, and get words to the others, for the battle to begin.

* * *

><p>"Your Majesty?," A voice called out from the darkness outside her camp, making her start and wheel round. "My Lady! You're the Queen of England?"<p>

A young man with a Pilgrim's band tied around his upper arms steps into the flickering light of the camp fire. His cap is pulled down low over his head, almost covering his eyes; and his dialect is heavy, almost indecipherable. Anne stops what she is doing, and takes a cautious step closer to the man. As she gets closer, she sees the Pilgrim's badge, showing the five wounds of Christ, stitched into his lapel, and her mind swirls in a panic.

"My guards are close by, sir," She warns him, peering through narrowed slits of eyes as he steps closer to her. "Try anything, and we'll hang you here and now."

He stops in the centre of the pool of yellow firelight, and throws his hands up in the air, showing that he is unarmed. He pulls at the lapels of his jacket, to show that there is no concealed dagger, or blade with which he could slit her throat in the blink of an eye. Satisfied, Anne beckons him closer.

"I'm no threat, I promise," He states earnestly. "I was forced to to join in this rebellion. Ask, and Constable, they went round the houses, forcing people to join them. They threatened Lord Latimer, his wife, and his children. The Lady was sore afraid of the rebel leaders."

"Lady Latimer?" Anne asks, closing in on the boy now, with her head cocked quizzically to one side. "Thats' Sir William's daughter, Catherine Parr, is it not?"

"I believe so, Madam, unless there is another Catherine Parr," He gives a small shrug. He's probably a shepherd boy, with no more knowledge of the nobility than of the alignment of the planets. "But Lord Latimer, who's lands I live on, is an old man. He is sick, and relies on Lady Latimer for almost everything. They threatened him all the same. He's a good lord to me, so I want to help you, and his majesty, the King, to keep my Lord safe."

"How did you know I was coming?"

"I saw your army, and I recognised your standards. The same as any other way. That lot back there," He jerks his head in the direction of the city walls. "I don't think they know that you have arrived yet. They sent me to find out if the rumours are true."

"Where is the King? I was told that he had escaped?"

"Aye madam, but the Exeters got 'im again," His eyes shine, glittering in the firelight, as her guards shift closer through the undergrowth. "The Lady Exeter has 'im in a house in the City."

Anne's heartbeat palpitates in her chest, loosing her breath she stumbles backwards and leans against a dark tree trunk for support. After a few deep breaths, she manages to calm herself, but the boy has rushed over to offer his arm, and lead her the few steps back towards the firelight.

"There's no panic ma'am. Some say Lord Exeter is losing his nerve," He tries to sound encouraging for the Queen. "He's afraid. There's been rumours of great armies coming from the south. Even ones with Lady Mary at the head, but others say thats rubbish `cos she is on our side-"

Anne doesn't confirm the rumour, and will not until she knows she can trust him. But, if the rebels think Mary is on their side, so much the better. Her army's attack will come as a surprise.

"Boy, what is your name?"

"Tom Shepherd, your majesty," He bobs into a low bow. "I'm a Shepherd, see."

"Tom, I need you to help me."

"Anything, madam."

"Will you get me, and some of my army through the city gates at first light, tomorrow?" She asks, her voice a low whisper. His face clouds over with doubts, and fears. Anne seeks to embolden him, further. "Do this for me, Tom Shepherd, and your days of counting sheep will be over, for ever."

"First light, madam," He repeated. "I'll be here."

Anne watched him leave. Tom kept glancing over his shoulder, and looking back at her with a smile on his face. Even if he isn't to be trusted, she will be taking a good dozen of her men with her when she leaves with him at dawn. She turned back to where her vast army were setting up camp in a dip between two great hills, well out of sight of the city walls.

"My lord of Oxford," She called out as John De Vere was about to duck into the large marquee that was acting as their headquarters. He stopped, and waited for her to catch him up.

"Your Majesty," He stoops into a low bow as she passes, collecting a lit lantern, he follows her inside. "We should discuss strategy."

"That boy I was talking to says the King is being held in a house in the city," She explains, ignoring his advice about strategy. "He has agreed to take me, and our men to him."

Oxford looks sceptical. "Then what?"

"They won't be expecting an army to turn up on the doorstep."

"And if they are?"

"Thats a chance we're going to have to take."


	10. Behind Enemy Lines

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the reviews, they mean a lot! However, I don't own the story, the characters, or the history/TV show. Thank you again for all your comments, and all constructive criticism is welcome. Thank you, and I hope my lovely readers continue to enjoy the story!

**Author's second note: Apologies for accidentally uploading this chapter to the wrong story. I really can be dense, at times!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten: Behind Enemy Lines.<strong>

Anne waited until the first glimmer of dawn broke over the eastern horizon before readying hersel for the day ahead. She dressed herself in a plain woollen tunic, covered by a simple black cloak with a deep hood to cover her face once she was within the boundaries of the City. Nothing about her appearance could be allowed to attract attention, and she went as far as to conceal her hair beneath a linen coif, under the hood. Satisfied that she looked as plain as she could, she stepped out of the marquee, and into the heart of the procession of twelve burly soldiers who would be coming with her. Their weapons and armour concealed below woollen tunics.

Together, they silently moved to the crest of the hill that concealed the army from prying enemy eyes, and waited patiently. Anne strained her eyes, peering into the distance at the tiny orange flickers of torch lights along the city walls, still standing out brightly against the paling skies. Every movement made her jump, and every shadow caught her attention as she raked the horizon for signs of Shepherd's return.

As time ticked slowly, interminably by, she grew increasingly restless. She paced restively, stamping her feet into the dew damp earth, and casting furtive glances behind her, as though expecting the whole rebel army to creep up on her from behind her own lines. But she saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"Looks like he's lost his nerve, to me," One of the soldiers remarks, his breath rising in little clouds in the chilly air.

"Ten more minutes," Anne replies, her voice low but still carrying in the stillness of the dawn.

The wait continues. She looses track of time, and behind her, the sun is in full ascent now, lighting up the bleak, marshy landscape that stretches all the way to the city walls. It brings Yorkshire, and all it's attendant grimness into sharp relief from the shroud of the night. Finally, Queen Anne spots a shadow shifting jerkily towards them, and as she looks closer, she recognises that cap pulled down low, almost covering his eyes, just like the night before. It is him.

He digs his shepherd's crook roughly into the earth to help him keep his footing, and aid his progress. Anne turns, instructing her men to fetch their horses and get saddled up for the ride behind enemy lines. The plan was a simple one. He leads them in, giving a cover story to the guards on the gates, and takes them straight to the house where Henry is being held. Then, they get out as Mary's, Jane's, and her own troops launch an attack on the city.

"Your Majesty," Tom calls out as soon as he is close enough to be seen, and heard. "I came as promised. Now would be the best time, while its' still early, before the markets get set up."

"So I see," Anne replies, studying him closely, now that she can see him properly. He is barely more than a child. His face, ruddy from a lifetime spent on the moors herding his flock, is sprinkled with freckles, and his eyes twinkle jovially beneath the low hanging cap. "Thank you, Master Shepherd."

Time was a luxury that Anne and her men could ill afford. Within moments, they were saddled and setting off across the moor towards the City. This day had dawned as equally dismal as the last one, but Anne barely noticed it now. The closer they got to the City walls, which rose from the surface of the earth like a man made cliff, her heart beat hammered in her chest and her throat seemed to close in on itself. There were unanswered questions bursting in her mind, but the words seemed to get trapped in her throat whenever she tried to speak. Instead, she lapsed into a the tense silence, and watched the walls loom ever larger on her horizon.

The journey, despite not seeming so far in mileage, still took almost two hours. The horses had difficulty crossing the soft, but rugged terrain, and would get their hooves stuck in the mud, forcing them to halt. Anne felt each delay like a physical body blow. Like a dream, in which she is running from some unseen enemy, but for all her exertions, gets nowhere. As soon as the city gates came into view, Anne dismounted and took Shepherd aside.

"Do the rebels still think that Lady Mary is on their side?"

"Aye Madam, so far as I know. They think she's coming to join them."

"Excellent. But, when my men and I enter the house, I want you to go back and wait by the city gates and make sure her men get in. They have a pomegranate standard, just like her mother's. They must get into the city unimpeded," Anne instructs him, and takes a long look over her shoulder at the impenetrable walls. It is their only hope as a siege would be futile. If all went to plan, Anne and Henry would be walking out, just as Mary's troops were walking in. But from where Anne was stood, she couldn't even see Mary's troops.

Anne raises a weak smile, and remounts her horse. The final few yards of the journey pass in a renewed silence as they reach the gates. Tom nods to the Queen, and moves to the head of the procession to speak with the rebels guards who man the City Gates. Anne watches him every step of the way, with her heart beating furiously in her throat.

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><p>Lady Mary emerged from her camp at sunrise, and found John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, waiting for her. Knowing that he'd been with the Queen, she allowed herself a deep sigh of relief as she approached him. He dipped into a low bow, and greeted her formally before filling her in on the plan of attack.<p>

"The King is recaptured, and being held in the city. The Queen is on her way over now, and is getting in with the help of a local spy," He informs her as they stroll about the camp belonging to Mary's vast army. "The rebels believe that you're on their side. Its' my job to mobilise your troops and get them within the City walls at noon."

"The Queen is in there now?" Mary asks, her brow creased in consternation at the news of her father's re-capture.

"Under armed guard, obviously," The Earl reassures her. "They're all disguised as peasants, too. And the spy will take them straight to the rebels safe house, where the King is being kept."

"Where are the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk. Surely they haven't run away?" Mary sounds horrified, they were the best Generals that England had, besides De Vere himself.

"Suffolk we have had contact with. No word on Norfolk, though." He shrugs his shoulders. "Its' been a terrible campaign, my lady. Unpredictable, and beset by bad fortune."

Mary allows herself a small sigh, and turns to cast a glance over her men. Already, they are mobilising for the noon attack from within the City itself.

"Lady Rochford will be here soon," Mary assures him. "Her men are commanded by the Earl of Essex, and are blocking the rebels from the east. When does the Queen say to begin the attack?"

"Noon. But, the rebels are expecting you to join them. That makes things easier for us all."

Mary shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the soles of her riding boots slipping on the damp grass underfoot. Her brow creases as her gaze starts to dart about the camp, as though taking a hasty head count of her ramshackle army. With another sigh, she gives up, and takes the Earl aside, leaning on his broad biceps for support.

"Be honest," She states in a tremulous voice. "Even taking in the Queen's, and Rochford's men, will it be enough?"

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><p>The guards peer at Queen Anne through the bars of the wrought iron gates. Their jaws slack, and their eyes drooping with exhaustion after a long night shift. Their clouded gazes travel the full length of her body, and she fights to bite back the rebuke for their impropriety. Never has she been gawked at so disrespectfully, but she hardly needs reminding that she is no longer a Queen, but a land tilling peasant girl seeking entry into the City markets.<p>

The guards finally grunt to one another, their northern dialect impossible for Anne to decipher; but she takes comfort from their blank, uncomprehending faces which show not the slightest trace of recognition. From the top of her horse, Anne keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead of her as the small procession passes through the gates of the city. Tom Shepherd walks beside her, gripping the horses bridle as though he were guiding her. She emerges onto a grimy, twisting cobbled street that leads the way through the heart of the City. On either side of her, are businesses and residential homes alike.

Few people are up and about, but rebels bearing the badges of the Pilgrims mingle easily with plain clothed citizens, who're just going about their day to day routine. Anne becomes painfully aware of the noise that they're making. The horses clatter raucously over the cobbles, the noise carries piercingly through the still morning air, bringing curious faces to the windows, and drawing stares from the few passers-by.

"Ignore them," Tom Shepherd whispers quietly under his breath. "Not far now, ma'am."

Anne makes no reply, but keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead and curses her own paranoia. Finally, after what seems an age of trudging through the endless, winding streets of York, they reach the three storey town house where the King is being held. Tom pulls on the bridle of Anne's horse, jerking the beast to a sudden halt, and he points.

"In there," He nods at the building which stands at a fork in the road. Two narrower streets lead off either side of it in a triangle shape.

"Dismount here," She instructs the men who've escorted her. "Line up along the walls of the house, six of you on each side. I knock on the door, and when they answer, we all pile in there, understood?"

The men all nod their understanding as they reach inside their robes, drawing out their swords in anticipation of the ambush.

"I want the Exeters taken alive. The others, I don't care about," She instructs firmly. "We have one hour to get the King out of there, before our armies attack the City."

The day's first raindrops fall from the leaden skies as the men start to shuffle along the walls of the house, hunkering low beneath the windows to avoid being seen. Anne tightens the clasp of her cloak about her throat, securing it in place, before turning back to Tom Shepherd. He is waiting just behind her.

"As soon as I get in, signal to the men," She instructs, leaning down to be level with him. "Then go straight to the City gates, remember?"

"To wait for Lady Mary's men," He parrots back at her, and she takes the hint. The boy isn't stupid. She manages an amused smile before apologising.

"Thank you, Tom. I won't forget this."

Finally, she turns back to the solid oak door, and beats her clenched fist hard against the smooth, painted surface. The door rattles in its' hinges, and from deep inside, a woman curses before instructing a servant to open up, but admit no one till the Marquis has returned. Anne's heart sinks. Courtenay is not inside. It just means that they will have to stall until he returns. After a few minutes, the door swings open and a wide eyed, ruddy cheeked servant girl's face appears in the crack. Anne temporarily looses her nerve in a fluster.

"Oh, excuse me," She blurts out, gathering her wits. "Some friends and I are looking for the Marquis of Exeter?"

Behind Anne, the sounds of six swords being drawn in unison fills the air, before six men all explode from their hiding places and kicking the door wide open. The servant girl's wavering scream fills the air, as she falls back, hitting her head against the far wall and falling ominously silent. Anne leaps to one side, as the men surge on into the building. She tries to see inside, but the men block her view as they storm the building.

After a few deep breaths, Anne follows in their wake as the sweep every room they pass, with one man left at the door, to prevent any escapes. She flings herself into the empty kitchen, which has an upturned waste bin, its' contents strewn across the dirty flagstones. Evidence that someone left in a hurry.

From overhead, on the first floor, Anne can hear the muffled thumps of booted feet running along the second floor floorboards. Without a seconds' thought, she turns and makes a run for the stairwell, and hurls herself upwards, not bothering to even check her footing. She emerges on a landing while her men are still downstairs, looking for the Countess of Exeter.

"Hello!" She calls out, her voice carrying down the passageway. Somewhere, she can hear someone struggling with a key in a locked door. The fumbling stops as her call is registered, but begins again almost immediately, and with a renewed intensity. Its' coming from up another stairwell.

Once again, Anne runs up another flight of steps, following the source of the noise. The second floor is smaller, narrower than the first. As she reaches the top of the wooden steps, the Countess ceases struggling with the lock, and lets the key drop to the floor with a clatter, making a small plume of dust billow up as it lands at her silk slippered feet.

"You!" Gertrude spits in disgust as the dawning comprehension clouds her shrewish face.

Anne, feeling eerily calm in the face of her nemesis, approaches cautiously. A flicker of a sneer teases across the Queen's face as she regards the stricken Countess who presses her body flat against the door, barring Anne's way.

"Yes, it's me. Who else were you expecting?" Anne replies, her voice light as though this were nothing more than a chance encounter.

The question seems to throw the Countess, and Anne seizes the opportunity to bodily launch herself onto the other woman. Gertrude's reaction was slow, but quick enough to wrap her hands around Anne's throat as the two woman started to grapple violently with one another. Gasping for breath, Anne scratched at Gertrude's face, making her yelp in pain and causing livid purple track marks to materialise in the wake of her nails, but she releases her strangle hold on Anne. The Countess responds by trying to pull at Anne's hair, but only succeeds in pulling down the hood of her cloak, to reveal the coif. Stunned, the Countess curses heavily, and Anne aims a punch at her jaw, sending her sprawling back against the door she was trying to unlock. Anne struggles free from her strangle, and grasps for the key.

"Oh no you don't!" The countess pants as she grips the key and throws it across the landing. Anne launches herself after it, but Gertrude catches her ankle as she does so. Anne screams out loud as she hits the floor with a crash, bringing a wall tapestry down on top of her as she tried to use it to catch her fall.

The tapestry covers her completely, and she chokes on the dust and debris that is embedded in it's weave while she struggles violently to free herself. She tries to scream for her guards, but they're still on the ground floor, searching for rebels. Then, a dead weight hits Anne the full length of her body. On top of the tapestry, the Countess is now pinning Anne to the floor.

Anne tries again to scream, but the dust from the ancient fabric is choking her, burning her eyes and making them stream with tears of irritation. Her limbs flail like she's throwing a fit, until the weight suddenly rolls off her, releasing her from her woven tomb. After a few minutes, Anne is clear of the heavy tapestry, but Gertrude is already back on her feet, and ready for the third round. Anne gasps for breath, and circles the Countess. Somehow, Anne has lost her cloak, and the sleeve her gown is torn clean off, leaving her right arm completely bare.

The Countess eyes Anne fixatedly as she follows the Queen's progress in a wide circle. Anne manoeuvres around until the Countess is standing at the top of the wooden stairs, and wasting no time, she throws herself at Gertrude Courtenay, and sends her crashing bodily down the wooden stairs, her body thumping heavily off each stair as she tumbles backwards. She comes to rest, immobile, but still breathing at the foot of the stairs on the first floor.

Anne catches her breath, the air seeming to burn her lungs as sucks in the dusty air around her. Light headed, and aching all over, she retrieves the key from its' landing place and rushes over to the door that the Countess was trying to unlock. She throws back the heavy bolt, and heaves her body against the wood, bursting into the room on the other side.

She doesn't see him, at first. Instead, she simply becomes aware of the blood leaking from her nose where the Countess had hit her earlier. She ignores the aches and pains in her body, and peers through the gloom. She spots him, and sags with relief. He is standing, with his body flat against the plaster walls, clutching a small knife to his chest, and his eyes are wide with terror.

"Henry!" She gasps, her voice echoing around the room as she finally sinks to her knees, her body no longer able to hold it's own weight.

He stands there for a moment as though he were in a daze. As though he had lost faith in his eyes, and couldn't really believe in what he was now seeing. His eyes narrow to slits as he looks down at her crumpled on the floor, and takes a cautious step forwards.

"Anne," He breathes her name, and reaches out a trembling hand to touch her. "Is that you?"

She looks up at him from her place on the floor, and remembers the time. "There's no time to explain," She gasps as she pulls herself back to her feet. "Follow me. We must leave immediately."

"Why?"

"Come on!" She grasps his wrist, and pulls him along the corridor while calling for the guards. "Wait here for the Marquis and arrest him on sight. The Countess is upstairs, unconscious. Arrest her, too." She instructs them as she hurtles passed.

"Anne what's happening?" Henry asks, his voice frantic with fear and confusion. "Please, wait!"

Anne ignores him, tugging on his wrist leading him outside into the driving rain that now pours from the sky.

"The troops are attacking at noon," She finally explains as they emerge on to the street outside. "I raised an army when we heard you'd been captured."

Outside, the sound of distant hooves can heard clattering along the cobblestones, back the way Anne had entered the city. Pausing for breath, they turn to face each other. Henry's eyes are glazed, as though he were still in a dream, and everything happening around him is just a bizarre fantasy. He takes in Anne's torn gown, the dusty coif from under which her now falls in rats' tail tatters, and her bloodied nose. They both get soaked in seconds.

"I told you to seek sanctuary in Westminster," His voice is floaty, as though he were only semi conscious. "I told you to save yourself."

"I came for you."

They move slowly towards each other, and Henry's face slowly lifts into a beam, and he laughs. The people all around them stare in confusion, and fear. The guards spill out of the house bearing the still unconscious form of Gertrude Courtenay. Henry and Anne ignore them all. It is though they have met for the first time, all over again as they melt into a deep, lingering kiss; their tears of happiness intermingling as they fold each other in a close embrace as the hour chimes noon under the rainy skies of York.

The moment passes. Rent apart as the sound of the hooves crashing over the wet cobblestones gets deafeningly loud, and people scream in terror. Anne tears herself away from Henry, and tugs his wrist again.

"Mary's men!" She calls over the din, beginning to run.

"What?" He yelps as he makes to follow her, running away from the advancing army who now tear through the narrow streets.

"Lady Mary joined me," She calls over her shoulder as she runs as fast as she can, joining a swell of people who're fleeing the battle that has started right on time. "She raised an army. She came to help."

"My daughter!"

Anne doesn't get a chance to confirm before a volley of deadly arrows sails overhead, blotting out the weak light of the miserable day.

"Jane's archers!" She cries out, but her words are lost in the din as chaos reaches fever pitch all around them. "Run!" She screams to Henry as the arrows hit all around them.

She pulls Henry down a side street to the left of the safe house, one that leads to Pontefract Castle. Back the way they came, a battle is already in full swing as Mary's troops storm the City walls. Jane's Kentish archers join the fray with enthusiasm as round after round of arrows is fired over the fortress like walls of York.

As they run at full pelt down the side street, Henry grips Anne hard and pulls her hard. "Wait!" He bellows, bringing Anne shuddering to a halt.

Anne stops so abruptly, she sways heavily on the spot, as she tries to regain her balance. She follows the line of her husband's stricken gaze, and feels her stomach lurch. Straight ahead of them, a vast crowd of rebel soldiers are advancing rapidly toward them. At the heart of them is Henry Courtenay, flanked by Robert Ask, and John Constable. Anne jerks her head left, and right, but they're boxed in. The two Henry's fix each other in a glare like cornered animals. There is no escape.


	11. Honey Traps and Battle Axes

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and those who've reviewed it. Your input is invaluable, and greatly appreciated, so thank you. Before getting on with the show, I'd like to categorically state that I own none of the characters, events, or TV show. Thank you, again, and I hope everyone continues to enjoy the story!

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven: Honey Traps and Battle Axes.<strong>

The moment seemed to freeze, hanging them all in suspended animation while the world around them continued to erupt in the confusion of the battle. Anne and Henry looked at the Marquis, and the Marquis looked right back at them. It seemed to take an age for the Marquis to register what he was looking at. Anne's mouth ran dry with fear as a plan took shape in her mind. The risk to herself, and the King, was enormous but it was all she could think of. She gripped Henry's hand, now slick with sweat as they both went into an adrenaline overdrive, and took a cautious backwards step.

"Henry, take a step back," She whispers in a low voice, praying that only her husband can hear her.

With his gaze still locked into Henry Courtenay's, the King followed the Anne's lead, and took a tentative backwards step. He watched as the row of hostile men in front of him responded by taking a step forwards. They froze again, but after a moment's hesitation, Anne whispered in Henry's ear again, her voice still low and urgent.

"Turn and run, now!" She hisses.

Together, they about turned on their heals, and ran back the way they came, leading the rebel leaders into the honey trap of the advancing Royal Army. Their footsteps pounded on the slippery cobbles, sending jolts of pain coursing through their already aching limbs. Occasionally, Anne cast a swift glance over her shoulder, making sure that the rebels were following them to the battle zone. About six feet behind her, she could see the lot of them bearing down on her and the King. Constable, Ask, and the Marquis himself. All of them fighting through the crowds to catch her and the King up.

"Lead them straight to the Army," Anne called out over the din of the City as she and Henry ran for their lives into the crowds of citizens all now running in the opposite direction. Henry grunted in-discernibly in response, but he maintained his grip on her hands as they ran, hand in hand like two lovers eloping to Gretna Green.

As they emerged, gasping for breath, back at the prison house, they came crashing to a halt, as Anne cast wildly around, looking for the way she'd come. All around them, chaos had broken out as the soldiers seized back control of the City, finally wresting it from the hands of the rebels.

"Anne, wait here!"

Anne spun around in time to see Henry dart back into the house. She tried to call out to him, but he'd already disappeared around the door before her words were lost in the din that surrounded her. Suddenly stranded, Anne spun in circles, scrutinising every face that passed her, straining to catch sight of their pursuers. She whispered madly for Henry to hurry up as she spun around, her heart beating faster than ever in a panic of helplessness.

Squinting through the driving rain, she finally spotted the men materialising from among the throng of the crowds. They didn't do her the courtesy of a pause. Instead, they swung around and made a beeline straight for her. She could see the malice glittering in Courtenay's eyes as a voice bellowed out behind her:

"Anne, catch this!"

Henry had burst through the doors of the house again, and threw to her a dazzling, steel sword which propelled dangerously through the air in her direction. She caught it by the hilt, and as soon as she had a grip on it, she pulled the blade free from its' scabbard just in time to swing it gracelessly at her attackers. Ask, Constable and Courtenay all shouted oaths at her as they staggered back to avoid the lethal swing of the blade. She had never held a sword in her life, except for while taking part in a pageant while serving Margaret of Austria. A world away from blindly slashing at the rain blurred figures of rebels who kept slipping in and the crowds of fleeing citizens.

She let out a sigh of relief as Henry practically jumped the whole distance back by her side, and engaged the enemy in a proper sword fight. He expertly parried the blows and thrusts of his enemies, but it was three against one, and he needed help. Gripping the hilt of the heavy blade, Anne ran blindly at the nearest rebel leader, and with a gut wrenching scream of effort, swung the sword as heavily as she could, and disarmed the man completely as his weapon was thrown clean from his hands, making him howl with pain from the blow.

Anne vaguely recognised the man as John Constable, one the rebellion's main leaders. His howls attracted the attention of one of Mary's soldiers, who charged down on him, and dealt a death blow to his head. Finally, other soldiers realised what was happening, and came over to assist King Henry. Gratefully, Anne let her sword arm fall limp at her side, as she reached out to Henry and pulled him free of the melee so they could continue their escape beyond the City walls.

"Take them alive!" Henry bellowed at the man in command of the soldiers. "I want prisoners!"

Already, before he even had the words out, Anne was pulling Henry towards the city gates. The citizens had finally fled to safety, and the thick of the Royal Army had already breeched deeper into York, leaving their path clear at last, but for a few dazed stragglers and reckless children spurred on by the excitement.

They had nothing left to wait for. Behind them, thick black smoke began curling into the skies, but it was barely discernible against the leaden clouds that hung over the whole county. But the smell of the pungent fumes choked them both, burning their lungs as they pelted on towards the City gates. It was like reaching the end of a Gladiatorial race, and the gates were about to win them their freedom. As she passed the gates, Anne reached out with her sword-less hand, and grabbed hold of the lapels of young Tom Shepherd as she passed him, still waiting faithfully by the gates for her.

"Run!" She screamed at him, trying to get a look at him so he would recognise her beneath the torn clothes, and bloodied, swollen nose.

Even beyond the city gates, they didn't stop running. Anne ignored the burning stitch in her abdomen, and the breath that seemed to tear through her lungs. She ignored her feet sinking into the marshy earth that seemed to want to suck her whole body right in. Even after she lost her shoes to the mud, she ran in just her stockinged feet, until they were a mile clear of the City walls.

Anne fell down first, and Henry came tumbling down on top of her; he tripping Tom Shepherd up in the process, and he completed the human pile up. There, the three of them lay in the mud and the driving rain, gasping for air as they all rolled off one another and on to their backs with their chests wheezing audibly. Anne lay there, listening to the sounds of the battle, muffled by distance now, that was still going on within York. The Army had struck decisively, and she knew that the rebellion is over now. The Crown is safe. Her children and her husband can all come home. She would do it all again at the drop of a hat.

"Henry, meet Tom Shepherd," Anne gasped, still hazing up at the cloudy skies with her sword at her side. "He just saved your life, and your Kingdom."

They lay there, not caring about the cold, rain, and wet mud, for several minutes. But the sound of approaching horses alerted all three of them at once. Stiffly, they all sat up and cast about for the source of the noise. There, in the not so far off distance, was a huge war horse with a slender girl in the saddle. Over her head, fluttering in the breeze and brightening up the stormy skies, was a great pomegranate standard. Anne laughed with relief, nearly slumping back to the ground.

"Mary!" She cried out feebly, as Lady Mary and her men approached.

Henry pulled himself to his feet, and offered a hand each to Anne, and Tom Shepherd, to help them up, too. Then, he turned to watched as Mary drew ever closer to him. Sitting pillion in the saddle, her dark brown hair fell in waves down her back. Her glittering blues eyes stood out like sapphires against the porcelain skin of her finely bone structured face. Her back straight, and her head held high. Now, Henry's vision was blurred from more than just the rain. His emotions choked him as he beheld the "pearl of his world" for the first time in almost six years. She is a woman, now. That naïve, fatherly part of him had expected her to remain exactly the same.

Mary looked down at all three of them, and was polite enough to disguise her shock as relief. The Queen looked like she'd been in tavern brawl with several burly drunks, the King looked thin, and wasted in his bedraggled, wet clothes. By comparison, the peasant boy alongside them looked like the one who should be wearing the crown. She slid down from the saddle of her horse, and regarded her father cautiously. She scrutinised his face, trying to gauge his reaction to her sudden appearance.

"Your Majesty," She sunk into a deep curtsey, the hems of her gown floating in the ditch water at her feet as she did so.

"No," Henry's voice was gentle as reached out and raised her back up again. "Just father."

Anne watches with a satisfied, but weary smile playing across her face as the two of them hugged each other close. Tactfully, she nudges at Tom, and jerks her head back towards the camp, gesturing for him to follow her, to give Henry and Mary some time alone.

* * *

><p>It took until nightfall for the rebel leaders to be rounded up. But, Henry and Anne didn't even loiter long enough in York to see their arrests. Henry casually informed the messenger to instruct the Duke of Norfolk to have Robert Ask hanged in chains above the City gates, and that he be left to rot there, to set an example to the citizens who'd complied with his insurrection. The Courtenay's, however, were a different matter. Henry ordered them to be brought to London to stand trial. Their game isn't over, just yet. Their treason ran deeper, and for sake of national stability, the matter needed thorough investigation.<p>

Eventually, that same night, as they made use of a local landlord's manor house, Anne and Henry finally lay in each other's arms once again. It was their first moment of privacy in a day spent mopping up the dregs of rebellion. Now, finally, they could be normal. They could be a husband and wife, reunited, just catching up on normal, everyday things. Anne, however, still wanted the moment to be special. She poured two goblets of wine, and reclined back in his arms on the feather mattress. He's been desperate to ask the question all day. For want of opportunity, she had not been presented with the right moment to simply tell him, and end his misery.

"You have a second son," She mentioned with an air of affected casualness.

Henry's goblet hit the floor with a clatter and a wet slap at it's contents spilled across the wooden floorboards. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly she could feel his heartbeat jumping beneath his bare chest. She felt tears of happiness spill from his eyes as they dripped on to the top of her head.

"Oh Anne!" He sighed, his voice trembling with emotion he couldn't even hope to suppress. He tilts up her head, and looks down at her with eyes that shine with tears. "I love you."

"I have sent Tom Shepherd down to London with a message to get the children back to England," Anne explains, her voice muffled by his skin as she breathes in deeply at his familiar musky scent. "Elizabeth, Arthur, and William will all be waiting for us."

He squeezes her close, and she realises that she had forgotten what it felt like. His strength, wrapped around her narrow shoulders, as he folds over her like this. She closes her eyes, and savours every second of their reunification.


	12. Endgames

**Author's Note:** First of all, a big thank you for all of your reviews. Its' great to get your feedback, and I really appreciate it. Thank you! Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, history, or the TV show. Enjoy the story!

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve: Endgame.<strong>

**October, 1536**

A small boat bobs through the twilight mists that hang low over the river Thames. A lantern hangs from the prow, its' glow diffused by the fog. Anne and Henry peer intently around the door of the Abbey crypt as they watched it grow larger until it is close enough for a shrill, wavering cry to be heard coming from within. Henry's arm, circled around Anne's waist, tightened instinctively, and the breath caught in his lungs as he realised it was his youngest son making the noise. The boat draws level with them, they look at each other and smile. Their children have finally been brought safely back to them.

Together, they step out on to the small wharf to board the boat, ushered on board by the hooded boatman. Anne's sister, Mary, appears from below deck. Even in the failing light, Anne can make out the dark circles that line her eyes, her skin made sallow by worry, and lack of sleep. They embrace each other warmly, but briefly, before Anne seizes the tiny bundle of her youngest son from his Moses basket, and cradles him close. His cries cease, and he looks up at his mother with his clear blue eyes that glitter in the light of the rising moon. Just beneath the swaddling, an untidy tuft of jet black hair can be seen. Prince Arthur is sleeping in his sister's arms on a small bunk set against the wall of the tiny berth. Elizabeth murmurs, her eyelids flutter, but she does not wake. Both Anne and Henry look over them hungrily, assuring themselves that their children are safe after their journey to France and back again.

The silence is broken by the boatman's oars splashing into the blackened waters, before pushing them further upriver, back towards the Palace. Anne passes Prince William over to Henry, and whispers his name in a low voice, her eyes welling with tears of relief. Henry takes him in the crook of his arm, and kisses the tiny patch of visible skin. When Henry pulls away from the babe, Anne sees a small, diamond shaped tear drop glistening on the child's cheek. Her smile widens. Henry makes the sign of the cross on William's forehead, and blesses him in a voice that is choked with emotion, as he cradles the boy like he was made of fine, Venetian glass.

"Papa," The tremulous, sleep-heavy voice startles them both. Arthur has awoken, but still lies in the arms of Elizabeth. He curls around his elder sister as though she were a security blanket. "Mama."

Henry, still with William in his arms, goes to kneel at Arthur's bedside, taking extra care to counteract the soft sways of the boat that glides in time to the tide. Anne kneels beside him, while Mary smiles on the scene from a respectful distance.

"You have a baby brother now, Arthur," Henry explains to the sleepy headed toddler. Arthur's eyes snap open, and his face creases into a deeply sceptical look as he wriggles to sit up. He regards his baby brother through narrowed slits of eyes. "You must protect him, now."

"No," He states firmly before settling back into his still sleeping sister's arms.

"Oh dear!" Henry sighs as he turns to look over at Anne, who's brow knits with concern.

"Arthur!" She chides him gently, holding her arms open for him. He flings himself over to her, and buries his face in the folds of her cloak, clinging to her for dear life as his tiny body heaves with sobs.

"Its' all right," She coos gently in his ear, rocking him back and forth. "Mama's home. Papa's home. We'll never leave you again, I promise."

The boat slides across the glassy waters, beneath the light of the full moon. Disembodied shouts echo across the city, and a lone dog howls at nothing in particular while the stars glimmer over the whole scene. Anne watches from the deck as the city slides past. Arthur, gripping her like a limpet, is still in her arms, when a disembodied hand lands lightly on her shoulder. She jerks around, and sees Mary looking down at her, a small smile on her face.

"They brought George's body back the other day," Anne tells her, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Good," Is Mary's simple, firm reply. "The rebellion is over, isn't it?"

"The leaders are all dead, apart from Henry Courtenay and his wife," Anne averts her gaze to the distant riverbank where the shadows of nocturnal beasts shift beneath the pallid light, before slipping below the surface of the river. "They are both found guilty, though. They will die soon."

"Both of them?"

"Both. We want this over with," The regret is heavy in Anne's voice as she glances down at the child in her arms. "How can he be safe, while people like that live?"

The journey back from York had been hard for both Henry, and Anne. Henry was weakened by his time in captivity, she was weakened through lack of sleep, worry, and fear for her children. The weather had grown worse in the onset of winter, slowing their progress south even further. The army, and their generals had been left behind to oversee the prosecutions, so they won't be back until spring time. But it was over, that was Anne had worried about.

"Will you go to Tower Hill?" Mary asks, sitting beside Anne with her back to the berth. "For George?"

"Henry wouldn't like it, but he himself is going to be watching from my apartments. They overlook the scaffold," Anne replies, her voice still low through worry about the topic of conversation upsetting her son. "I may put in an appearance. Like you said, for George's sake."

Mary averts her gaze now, to disguise the tears that leak from her eyes. They'd had no time to cry. No time to grieve for their brother, friend, and companion. Anne's expression is thoughtful as she speaks again.

"It never felt like he has gone," She says, her voice distant now. "It felt like he'd just popped out to the markets, and was just late getting back. In a way, I don't think he has gone."

"There's Little Anne."

"I don't even mean that," Anne elaborates as she looks up over head as they sail under the stars that now glitter like jewels as they glide slowly beneath them. "I mean, death is a bit like going into a locked room, to which we don't have a key. Or, a veil behind which we cannot see. These difficulties are not permanent. When our time comes, we will simply join him there."

The two women fall silent as Hampton Court finally comes into view. Little pin points of light shine from the many windows, twinkling as though welcoming the Royal Family back. Henry steps silently up on to the deck of the boat, standing just a few feet apart from them. On one hip, William is perched, while the other is weighed down with Elizabeth, who's head rests on his shoulder now. He has never looked happier. He approaches them faltering, gripping the children tight, and turns to look at Hampton Court.

"We're home," He states with a nod to the torch lights that twinkle through the darkness.

In the distance, a long line of servants forms up in the light of the lit beacons in the Palace grounds. Their staff have come out to welcome them home. Prominent among them is their newest recruit, Tom Shepherd. The three adults form up, and wave, even though they're still invisible to the people to the staff. Even the blind believe in colours and shapes.

The ornate, wrought iron gates swing open, and the cheers split the skies as Henry, Anne, and Mary are borne on a litter to the front door of their home.

* * *

><p>Violent winds sent pulses of heavy rain squalling into the faces of the assembled crowds. In a futile effort at shelter, the people pulled their hoods lower down over their faces, and huddled closer to one another to try and spread around the heat of their bodies. But the winds cut through them to the very bone, and the rain drenched them through, as the puddles at their feet deepened until the water seeped into their shoes, and slopped over their ankles. But still the Londoners endured it to see the downfall of another over-mighty subject.<p>

At noon, a cheer went up among the people huddled close to the Tower entrance as the prisoner was led out of the gates, on his final journey to the scaffold. Henry Courtenay's shirt and hair were plastered to his body within moments of him stepping out into the winter storm. He flinched like a whipped child as the rain lashed down on him, and stumbled as a gust of wind almost pushed him right over. The guards who surrounded him had to reach out and grab him by the upper arms, preventing him from falling flat on his face. Roughly, they gave him another shove in the small of his back, pushing him towards the steps of the scaffold which swayed in the wind.

As he mounted the steps, the crowd grew subdued under an expectant silence as Courtenay, now a bedraggled mess, moved to the edge. The guards extricated themselves from him, and formed a human barrier at the side of the wooden platform. He stood, shoulders hunch, and face squinting through the rain, and tried to make his voice heard above the noise of the howling gales.

As though he'd decided that the effort was disproportionate to the reward, he simply bowed his head, and gave up after just a few stammered sentences of contrition. The headsman's mask had slipped in the incessant downpours, and he made no effort to correct it. Instead, he cast it aside, and signalled for Courtenay to kneel in the straw at the base of the wooden block. He asked for the Marquis's forgiveness, which he appeared to grant. He then pulled a plain gold ring from his index finger, and pressed it into the executioner's palms with a trembling hand.

As he leans against the block, with his palms pressed into the corners to support himself, Henry Courtenay, former Marquis of Exeter, takes one final look around. His dull, green eyes that register no emotion, rove over the front lines of the gloating spectators. He crosses himself, and bends over to lay down his head in the hollowed crevice of the lumbar. He turns his face to the east, kisses a small gold crucifix in his left hand, and throws out his arms as the headsman lines up the stroke of the axe. A gust of wind throws the first stroke off course. It slices deeply in to the back of his exposed neck, blood mingles with the rain as it runs red down the sides of the wood, pooling at the base. Courtenay remains stoically silent as he braces himself for the second attempt. The headsman doesn't miss a beat. The second stroke comes down, the man's knuckles white with the force of his grip, and brings the axe down again. This time, the head drops clean off, landing with a dull thud in the soaking wet straw. His body falls back from the block, and the blood slaps wetly against the scaffold. The headsman lets his axe fall to the floor as he lifts the head up high.

"Thus die all England's enemies!" He calls out over the howling wind that carries his voice through the driving rain.

Queen Anne watches from a window high above in the White Tower. She feels no pleasure, or triumph as her enemies die. She just feels a grim sense of duty as Gertrude Courtenay joins her husband's broken body on the scaffold. A maid has to hold Gertrude's hair as she lays at the block, trying to stop it from being whipped by the winds. Even from this distance, Anne can sense the other woman's fear, and a stab of something like pity grips her heart. Gertrude is so pale, she almost glows in the gloom of the day. The headsman steadies her with his foot, as though standing on her, before severing her head with one carefully aimed blow of the axe. It is over within seconds.

Anne flinches, and turns away from the window. She squeezes her eyes shut and rubs the images away. After a deep, steadying breath, she knows that it is now over.

* * *

><p>The fire crackles softly in the Privy Chamber as Henry hunches over his paperwork in the far corner. Queen Anne sits, with Prince William on her lap, by the fire and watches as he feeds. As he suckles, she doesn't see Prince Arthur glaring at her from across the room. He falls backwards onto his backside, his expression mutinous as it fixes on Anne, and the baby in her arms. Elizabeth tries to distract him with a small hobby horse, but he shrugs it off with a sullen huff. He reaches out for Anne's skirts, and twists his fist around the fine taffeta before giving a sharp tug.<p>

"Arthur, stop that," Anne quietly scolds, her gaze not leaving William who continues his suckling apace. It is the first time that Anne has been allowed to do this, and she relishes every moment.

Arthur, heedless of her scolding, gives another sharp tug on his mother's skirts and his scowl deepens. He is furious at this lack of attention, so lets out a high pitched screech to emphasise his point. Behind him, his father jumps out of his skin, blotting his papers with great smudges of ink; while in front of him, Anne almost raises her hand to smack him, before getting a grip on herself.

"Arthur!" Elizabeth chimes as she waves the Prince's sceptre and orb rattle at him, but he shrugs her off again, evidently dissatisfied with the response of his parents, he screams at them again.

"Lady Bryan!" Henry doesn't try to conceal his impatience as he bellows for the Governess. He pushes back his chair, and crosses the room to scoop Arthur up from the floor. The toddler struggles and writhes fruitlessly, before sinking his new teeth into Henry's arm. "Arthur!" Henry scolds, and Arthur ceases his wriggling immediately, and trembles at the anger in his father's voice. He is saved when Lady Bryan comes skidding into the chamber, and ducks a curtsey.

"Lady Bryan, take him to his chambers," Henry commands as he deposits the child in Margaret's arms. "I really do not know what manner of devil has possessed this boy since his brother was born."

Anne sniggers, but swiftly disguises it as a cough. "He is just jealous!" She explains, giving Henry a sympathetic look. He now has livid purple bite marks blossoming like an exotic flower on his forearm.

"He is naughty," Henry complains as Lady Bryan retreats from the chamber with Arthur now renewing his struggling in her arms. Henry throws himself down in the chair opposite Anne, and gestures for Elizabeth to sit on his knee. "Not like my beautiful Bessie," He croons as he nuzzles her hair. "Good as gold, from the moment she was born!"

Elizabeth glows as she soaks up her father's praise. Finally, Anne glances up as William finishes suckling. She'd been worried about Elizabeth being somewhat cast aside, following the birth of Prince Arthur. But Henry adored her still, and showed it often, much to Anne's relief.

"Did you see the look on poor Arthur's face?" She asks. "When you shouted at him."

"I didn't mean to shout," Henry replies, waving his hand feebly.

"You have every right to be angry, husband. But it's not Arthur's fault."

"I didn't mean to-"

"I know!" Anne cuts him off before he gets too worked up. "I know you didn't mean to."

They lapse into a silence during which William dozes off, and Elizabeth is relinquished into the care of her older sister, Lady Mary. Henry watches as his two daughters leave the chamber, a look of longing in his eyes as he watches them disappear behind the double doors.

Outside, the storms still rage and the rain smashes off the mullions, blasted as it is by the gales. Henry turns his attention back to Anne and William, who is lying against her chest, his tiny body rising and falling with every breath he takes. Anne closes her eyes with contentment.

"He was your cousin," She says, out of the blue. "You're allowed to be hurt, and betrayed."

"I know," He replies, and averts his gaze to the fire. "I trusted him."

"You loved him."

"That, too."

She can see the pain of the betrayal in Henry's eyes. She can see the hurt which has him lashing out at those who don't always deserve it. But with her, he knows that he can let the wounds of deception show. He looks at her, and admires the golden glow that her skin has been suffused with by the fire.

"Is it normal for Prince Arthur to be so jealous of his brother?" He asks, his brow knitted close in concern.

"Perfectly so."

Henry seems far from satisfied with Anne's answer, but he says no more about it. The last few months have taken their toll on them all, even those far too young to fully understand it. Thats' twice Arthur has been wrenched from his mother's arms, thats' twice the insecurity, and twice the trauma of separation. He holds open his arms for a hug. "Both of you," He says, grinning broadly. She looks at him, and laughs. Even after all these years, he cannot hold her close enough.


	13. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, I really do appreciate it. I'm hoping to make this an "Anne Boleyn Trilogy", but it may be a while before I come up with the final part. Anyway, thank you again, and please enjoy this final instalment. I own nothing, and reviews are most welcome. Thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter 13: Ludlow and Beyond (Epilogue)<br>**

**Windsor Castle, 1542**

The bright summer sun shines down on Windsor Castle, picking out the finely manicured lawns in a shining emerald green, punctuated by the bright flourishes of flowers that line the borders. A great litter, drawn by horses caparisoned in cloth of gold, are tethered to the front, is stationary before the Castle grounds. Behind it, a small procession forms up, headed by the King and Queen, each holding a hand belonging to their eldest son, Prince Arthur. Behind them, is Lady Mary Tudor, Princess Elizabeth, and Prince William trailing behind with his Governess, Lady Margaret Bryan.

Anne looks down at Arthur, his hand still impossibly small in hers, and smiles through her pain. Henry suddenly drops to his knees before the child, and begins fussing with his clothes, double checking everything, while the boy tries to wriggle free.

"I'm not a baby!" He pouts as Henry continues his fussing, oblivious to the painful embarrassment he is causing his seven year old.

"Sweetheart," Anne implores her husband with a smile. "He is fine. He has everything he could possibly need."

But Henry feels the same as she. This is almost a bereavement for them both. Prince Arthur is now seven, and must begin his formal training as a future King of England, out in Ludlow Castle in Wales. Lady Mary extricates herself from her younger siblings, and stands behind her father, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

"Father," Her voice is steady, resolute. "I shall take care of him as if he were my own child."

After checking the clasp on Arthur's gown one more time, Henry finally stands up again, trying to disguise the tear in his eye. He nods his head, and turns away to walk over to his younger children, and Mary follows him. Anne, seizing the last minute opportunity for a talk with her eldest son, takes him into his litter.

"Listen to me," She says as he settles on the seat beside her. "You're going to Wales now, and the next time you come back to England to live, you will be King."

Arthur looks up at her with his wide blue eyes swimming with tears, and for a moment, his bottom lip trembles.

"Why am I being sent away?" He asks in his high, wavering voice, still uncomprehending. "Why can't I learn from Papa?"

"Because you must learn to Govern, and stand on your own two feet," Anne explains as gently as she can, not quite able to keep the pain from her voice. "Wales will be like your own Kingdom, until your father leaves the English crown to you."

Arthur squirms in his seat, his expression still pained, and he can't look his mother in the eye.

"We're not sending you away because we're displeased with you," Anne sighs as she tilts his face up to hers.

"But William said-"

"Ignore him!" She states firmly. "Look, when you come back to visit us at New Year, I think you'll find that you and William will have missed each other dreadfully."

He pulls a face that would curdle fresh milk, and Anne laughs. The two boys' have become notorious for their sibling rivalry, each egging the other on to greater and greater extremes. Anne is almost relieved that finally there will be some space between them.

"When is New Year?" He asks quietly, too proud to admit that he will be counting down the days.

"Six months from now," She answers as she flattens his unruly auburn hair, and fixing the cloak that Henry has already fussed over like an old mother hen. She is trying to distract herself from the tears that are threatening to spill from her eyes at any moment. "When you get to Ludlow, you must do as your big sister, Lady Mary, says. She is in charge of your household. Pay attention to your classes, and learn from your tutors. You must use every opportunity-" She pauses to stifle the choking emotions that swell up in her heart. "-and one day, you will be a great King, Arthur."

"Will I be like Papa?" There is awe in his voice. Like any other boy, his father is one of the most awe inspiring, and overwhelming people in his life. Anne leans in close, and whispers in his ear.

"Even better, I bet!"

She steals a kiss on his cheek just as footsteps approach the litter, and Henry appears. He has managed to compose himself, but the pain of the imminent separation is still plain behind his eyes. Its' still in the expression on his face. He raises a small smile as he leans in through the window, and pats Prince Arthur's head for a kiss.

"It's time to go," He states, trying with all his might to sound bright and breezy. He gives all the advice that Anne gave not ten minutes before, before helping her down the steps of the litter. The Prince's guards form up around the litter, and Lady Mary takes up place beside him. Final squeezes, and final kisses, the horses hooves clatter against the flagstones, and the litter pulls off.

Henry stands behind Anne, his arm circled around her waist. Elizabeth to their right, now nine years old and every inch a Tudor Princess, waves vigorously with one hand, while the other clasps Prince William's. The Younger Prince, now six, jumps up and down, trying to see the litter through the press of bodies that obscures his view; before Henry picks him up, holding him up high so he can wave his brother off. Anne wipes a tear from her eye as the litter finally disappears, and sound of the horses hooves can no longer be heard.

Together, they move off for a family walk around the gardens. Henry sets William back on his feet, letting him run on ahead, with Elizabeth shadowing him. Henry lags behind, still with his arm around Anne's waist, both enjoying a companionable silence. But, quite out of the blue, Henry brings up the subject all over again.

"We can always bring him home, again," He says, trying to sound casual as he pretends to look at the flowers. "If he doesn't settle in by New Year. Thats' what I mean."

"Yes, of course!" Exclaims Anne, over brightly. Already, she can feel a gaping hole in her family where Arthur should be. "Any time we like, we have him returned."

They find a bench set among the rose beds, and lower themselves on to it. Anne calls to the children to stop them from running off without them, an order they comply with only reluctantly. She then lays her head back against Henry's shoulder. It has been sixteen years since they met and fell in love. He is heavier, and his leg pains him more and more frequently. It is an old gift from a jousting accident that happened after Arthur was born. It is a gift that keeps on giving. But, other than that, Anne can still see why she fell in love with him. She squints against the afternoon sun to look into his broad, handsome face, to find that he is studying her just as intently. He smiles, and squeezes her close.


End file.
